Since coming to Moscow the world had tumbled and tumbled until it was no longer what it once was. Nox hadn't even set food on Russian soil before the world upended.  His father would be furious to know he was going to Russia - the CCD he'd hated the other side of the ocean for years.  It was breed in him from his father.  But Aurora and Nox had thought differently when they decided.  They decided together that they would come to the homeland of their ancestry - they would come to Moscow and be named Atharim full fledged by the grace of the Pope himself.  Or so the story had gone after they'd become gods.  The most hated things on earth for the Atharim and he was one.

Thinking about it all made Nox want to hurl.  So instead of thinking about it and dwelling he thought about the future.  The future which brought him no hope.  He'd be hunted the remainder of his life.  Nox knew that now.  They'd come at him once, they'd come again.  There was no time to waste, yet he felt empty inside.  Devoid of all things, all hope.  Sage and Aiden didn't help any with their blissful love.  Fuck them. 

He didn't need to have a future, Cruz and Dorian, even Aiden and Sage deserved that.  Ana and Christian most of all they just got pulled into the unlucky situation.  Though Ana... she was the mother of a god.  Nox sighed as he pressed up on his hands into a high plank before moving into downward dog.  Yoga was becoming more and more required to get through a day.  To focus on his body and his body alone, drown in the calm cool serenity of the power lingering at the edge. 

But not touching it.  It no longer brought peace of mind.  It brought pain and memories and things Nox didn't want to feel, but he did every time he touched the power god had granted him.  God... no... he had nothing to do with it, even if Aria believed, Nox didn't.  This was science - genetic. Why else kill parents.  The perfect storm came and that storm came with Apolyon - Ascendancy.  Another man who probably wanted him dead and for what?  Because he was Atharim.  

That was the theme in all this misery.  The Atharim - if you got down to it his mother died because of the Atharim.  If she'd never met his father.... Nox knew he'd never have been born,but she'd never have died either... except she would have, his father saved her.  It was a well told story.  

Nox pushed it out of his head as he stood into Warrior 1.  So many reasons to leave the Atharim behind - to go find a hiding place and live and die there.  But there were still monsters out there.  Monsters that could devour the world whole and even the Ascendancy in all his grand glory could never win if they all came calling at once.  He barely survived the Ijiraq.  

Nox shuddered at the memory of the ball and yawned in response to the weariness of his body.  But he pushed harder. He needed a direction.  A life outside of the Atharim.  Warrior 2.  Nox knew that.  But he also knew that he had no skills.  Not a single one besides survival and killing monsters - that wasn't real world in the least.  So for now Nox pushed his body and his skills with the power.  He'd defend this family with his life.  Which meant he had to grab the power, it was painful -  more so than ever before as he reached into the dark light and pulled it to heart.  It struggled as it burned his soul.  It fought against his control as he wove the light show Methos' stage hand had used at the misshapen concert.  It danced in fury, in chaos and Nox let it eat at his very being, but he didn't let go.  It stung and burned and he felt the Ijiraq feeding on him.  It was all in his head - he knew it.  

The music in Nox's ears ceased as a text came over his wallet.  Nox touched his left earbud and  it read the text. Hey Nox. This is Ivan. I need your help. I need to learn this power

Why did Ivan always come to him when he needed to learn?  He knew exactly what he was, where he went in life, his beliefs, he'd left him to fucking die on his own because he couldn't stomach his truth.  The voice in his head, the one that sounded like his sister told him, he had to help him, the power was dangerous if you experimented.  "Remember how many times I had to heal you."

Nox sighed and headed for his make shift room for clean clothes and a shower as he pulled out his wallet and typed Ivan a reply.  "I'm free now.  Where do you want to meet?"

Today The Write Practice gave a prompt for Halloween - 6 word stories with a horror theme.  I started out with a simple one.

Quote:Locked Door.  No way out.  Help!

Quote:Missing girl.  Last seen with boyfriend.

Quote:Invisible claws sundered a silent scream.

Quote:Maniacal laughter. Severed head fell. Oops!

Hood was not a good man.

He was not one for 'doing favours' or going out of his way to help strangers. Or acquaintances. Not if there wasn't something in it for him. But if there was something in it for him, he could be convinced to go above and beyond the intent of the request.

Hence why he was sitting in a long-abandoned mini-aquifer, a level or two below the active sewer and city services tunnels, a shemagh wrapped around his head to hide his features from his 'guests.' Not that it much mattered. All three were tied to much sturdier chairs than his own, and the only one that mattered had a bag over his head.

What confusion the other two may have had that their boss had his head covered began to evaporate when Hood removed his shemagh. A subtle hint on who was likely to get to leave that water-damaged brick chamber.

One, a young twenty-something piece of shit, was already weeping before Hood pulled the piece of fabric from his face. The man's sobs only deepened.

The other was a tougher sort. Self-delusion, of course; ex-CCD military. Still had the haircut. Still wore the boots. Clothes were functional, durable; much like what Hood wore in fact. The delusion though, was that he wasn't near as strong, as untouchable, as he thought. That one just glared coldly, probably thinking he was being clever as he tried to twist and flex his wrists in an effort to break the zip-ties that held them together.

The third, with the bag over his head, was the only one that actually mattered. The sort of douche-bag stylish casual suit that self-important rich kids wore to whatever shit popular club-of-the-day where he'd spend more on booze and drugs in a single night than most people earned in a month. The sort of douche-bag grease-stain that, if he saw something he wanted, he had people to get it for him. Cars, gadgets, people.

That one was the center piece of Hood's attention for the past few weeks. A sort of side-project, something to fill his free time. It certainly wasn't a challenge, and there was no big paycheck waiting the results.

Just an old bag lady that had rather rudely barged into his house one morning screaming at him in Russian. Hood didn't recycle. He didn't need the money, didn't care about the environment. But he did leave his recyclables on his porch. It was always better if your neighbors liked you (and respected you enough to leave you alone and not ask questions). The old bag lady was the one who tended to take his bottles.

He didn't lock his doors when he was at his house. His security system warned him well enough in advance that she was coming. And if anyone wanted to barge in and ruin his day, they weren't likely to leave on their own two feet.

The old bat didn't speak a word of English; a remnant of an older time. There were still a few, too stubborn or poor to learn another language. One of many that had slipped through the system's cracks. Considering how many people eked out a living under Moscow's streets, there were quite a few cracks in the system.

Luckily for her, he was fluent in Russian.

A simple demand. Not a request, not a favour. Not that she offered any payment either. Just a demand.

Kill the monsters that had killed her granddaughter. Not that the girl was any saint herself; an escort. The seedy sort. Drugs, prostitution, a criminal file. Not a saint. But she, like everyone really, was someone's child. Someone's mother, father, brother, sister. Whatever.

She'd run afoul of the douche-canoe in the suit, who now found himself sitting in an old aquifer well below the city's streets. His suit stained with blood, only some of which was his own. His pants soaked with urine. His own, plus whatever had soaked into the fabric while Hood had dragged the idiot down there.

She'd ended up in an illegal brothel. One mostly populated by the illegal immigrants that lived under the streets. That didn't exist as far as the government cared. Easier to ignore it as long as they didn't become too big a problem. And hell, it did help keep a lot of the human-trafficking kind of crime away from the city's tax-paying population.

Why had he done it? Why bother doing what some old homeless bag-lady demanded of him? Why waste ammunition and time, both far more valuable than the lives of the people he had killed up to that point, on something that didn't concern him? Had no impact on his life? Hell, there hadn't even been a risk of their activities drawing the police into his neck of the woods, not like the idiots that had thought to hide one of their trafficking projects in his part of town.

“Because I was bored, mostly.”

The answer to the babbling, weeping fool's most repeated question. 'Why are you doing this?'

It certainly wasn't what he had wanted to hear, and his weeping bawling pants-shitting fit just ratcheted up a notch. The other one just continued to glare and work at his bindings. At least until Hood waggled a finger towards him while still looking at the weeping druggy. “Same reason I'm probably going to leave that one alive. Blind, deaf, mute. Quadriplegic. But alive. Snip a few tendons. Break a few bones. Don't need to break any, of course. The tendons will do the job. Then I'll make sure he doesn't die. Leave him with the immigrants. Maybe pay one to keep feeding him. Keep him alive.”

It was his tone. The look in his eyes. When he looked at the ex-soldier, the man knew. A sudden dawning of realization that Hood would do everything he had just, because...because he was bored. It wasn't personal. It wasn't even really because of anything the ex-soldier had done. It was just because Hood knew it would be a fate worse than death, and was just bored enough to follow thru on it.

Hood stood then, walked behind the three seated men, and dragged a table over into their view. All sorts of tools sat on that table. Crude things, mostly. A box of nails and a hammer. A few bottles of industrial disinfectants...he didn't want them dying of an infection, after all. A subtle implication of just how long he expected to play with them. Pliers, a propane torch. Car batteries...good ones. Quality ones. Not some knock-off brand.

He was a professional, after all. Didn't want to use a recycled battery that might not have a full charge.

And, most curiously, a transmitter, that was attached to those batteries.

“I'm going to start with you though.” His focus returned to the addict. The one that had turned the old bag lady's grandchild into a cheap escort. Too bad; the girl would have been gorgeous if she had been born into any other family, probably. Hell, she'd probably have done very well in the same line of work if she'd just had better contacts first.

He picked up the first bottle of disinfectant, poured it into a bowl. Pulled his jacket off to reveal the body armour underneath. A pair of durable latex gloves. Then dipped a nail in the bowl. “Oh, you're probably wondering why your hand hurts, Mr Bolevsky. It's because I cut your tracker out. It's plugged into a signal booster, so your father can find you when I'm all done here. He'll probably send his best men to get you. Well, his second best...” a disapproving glance at the ex-soldier “...and I'll go pay him a visit. Just to have a talk. I have some very interesting things to tell him about your plans for inheriting the family business.”

-----

It took longer then he had expected for the douche-bag's father to get his people together. By the time a warning popped up on his Landwarriors, he had long dismissed the idea of keeping the pitiful sack's bodyguard alive. The loser wasn't worth the money, no matter how amusing it would have been.

The douche-bag had nearly drowned on his own vomit at one point. Pathetic. He couldn't even see what was happening. He could smell it, sure. Hear it, obviously. Probably a result of an over-active imagination. Impressive, considering how unimaginative the fool seemed to be in regards to his own mortality and possible repercussions of his actions.

Not the point though. By the time his Landwarriors had warned him that there were people approaching, trying to track the signal from the idiot's tracker, he had long finished with the druggy wanna-be pimp and had been taking his time on the ex-soldier.

Time up, he'd cleaned up a bit, put his shemagh back on, and pulled the bag off the idiot wanna-be crime lord's head. Let him get a good look at what Hood had done to the pair over the past two hours. The ex-soldier was still alive; would be when their friends arrived. Wouldn't be much long after though.

He'd decided he wouldn't bother visiting the idiot's father in person. Not that it would have been all that hard, but because it just wasn't worth the effort. He'd insulted the man enough, but the evidence that his own son had been planning to kill the father and take over would probably be enough to keep the old fool from trying to hunt Hood down.

It didn't take him long to get back to street level, where his old-model cellphone received a signal again. A quick glance indicated he had a new message; his day job, a new contract offer. Security analysis for some politician's new estate. Simple enough, a few days work. Someone that owed the company favours for past work. Well, it would help kill some time until something interesting came up.

Phone tucked away, he made his way into the subway and pondered what to do for supper.

The party had been interesting to say the least.  What had been planned as a fun event had been full of monsters and channelers and the like.  Emily for one, was glad to be home.  She was equally glad for the man that held her.  She hadn't known love before.  Of course she loved her parents and her sisters, but romantic love was a new feeling for Emily, and it had come out of nowhere.

Emily had known from the instant she had met Jared that she had loved him.  She felt as if she had loved him even before they had met.  It was a strange feeling.  She had never read about that sort of thing in any of the fairy tales or stories.  She sat on the couch with Jared - well, really she sat on Jared who was sitting on the couch - and his arms were wrapped around her.  She felt safe there. Safer than she had ever felt.

They hadn't said much since they had returned to Emily's place, but she felt they hadn't needed to.  Emily sighed contentedly as she leaned her head into Jared's shoulder.  She saw his arm move, his hand taking her jaw and turning her head as he gave her a light kiss. It wasn't their first, and the passion in it didn't come for the pressure of the kiss or the length.  It was ethereal, but it was definitely there.

Emily smiled as they broke it off. "I love you," the words came unbidden and without fear from her lips.

Jared smiled, but didn't answer right away.  She knew the answer - she knew he loved her too, but why did he hesitate.  He surely wasn't worried about her reaction. "And I love you." he said, smiling and kissing her again.

Emily sank into it wondering about his hesitation.  "Is something wrong?" she asked, when their kiss had ended.

"No," Jared said, smiling. "It's really the opposite...It's..."

The meds worked pretty well. Not like he still didn't hurt, but it wasn't bad. Well, maybe not as bad. He coulda taken a few more tabs but...he wanted to be lucid. And pain worked as well as any stim for that. Three of his ribs were fractured so clearly he would't be running around anytime soon; jaw nearly broken; Nu-skin covering slashes and bites itching something fierce; concussion that still made him see double at times; lip split in a number of places; a couple of broken knuckles; a broken toe; and everywhere else deep black and blue bruises covering him. 

It had been a good fight.

At least he hadn't broken his nose or lost any teeth. And thankfully, his eye was not swollen anymore- although maybe it was a shade darker that it should be. Not that he'd put on make up to cover it.


Thank God for modern medicine. He coulda done without the lecture from the doc. Her frowns made him smirk, though of course he regretted it, what with the lips and jaw and all. Her look said it served him right. And it probably did.

The Cap'n was worse. Ivan just told him it had been a fight club thing. The man tore him a new one before putting him on the DL for the time being. It was stupid of him, he knew. He had a job to do. And he would do it. But still. he didn't regret it. It had been good for him.

And truthfully, Ivan looked forward to hanging out with Ryker again. No more fighting like that. No. But it was fun all the same. Something had changed. What it was, Ivan wasn't sure. Well, nothing really had changed. Ascendancy was still the same pompous ass who allowed and even used corruption as a tool in his empire; Yun Kao was still out there holding his family over his head; Zoya was still gone; and Danya and Zara....

Ivan stood at the door of her apartment, his stomach fluttering. He took a deep breath, appreciating the sharp pain that came from his complaining ribs. It was funny. He'd had no fear getting into the ring with that man. He'd had no fear when the woman held him with the power, used it to dig into his wounds. But now....at the prospect of seeing Zara, fear paralyzed him.

His arm weighed two hundred pounds it seemed, as he tried to raise it to knock. He clenched his jaw and stab of agony lanced through him. Not broken, but definitely had been put out of joint. The resetting had been bad.

"Coward," he whispered to himself. He knocked and the door opened. The sweet smell hit him in the face and he inhaled sharply. Suddenly he was 19 again. And Danya had surprised him with dinner. Some sort of Persian stew her mother used to make. Despite himself, his heart opened for a moment, allowing himself to remember, to feel what he had felt, what had been walled off for all these years. God he missed her.

And there she stood, blonde streaked hair pulled back in a pony tail, white t-shirt and faded blue jeans. Nothing had changed. She looked at him curiously, her smile fading as she took in his injuries. "Hi Danya," was all he said before she hugged him- and then he breathed sharply through clenched teeth as his entire body protested.

She pulled back, concern painting her face. "Oh! I'm sorry." She looked at him, studying, then stepped aside so he could enter. Pain colored her words. "Oh Ivan, what did you do?" It was more chiding than anything else.

And he didn't feel like talking about it. Not with her. He felt stupid enough as it was. He tilted his head briefly and tried to give a halfhearted smile. "I just fell down. That's all." She looked at him for a moment, raising an eyebrow and one side of her lips in a smile. Then she shrugged, not pressing the issue. She knew him.

He looked around. It was as he remembered. The brown leather couch covered in different colored pillows; the plush blue chair opposite it, zebra print pillow on it; thick patterned carpet on the floor; lamp in the corner with a red and gold gauze cloth draped over it; mix of prints on the wall, some from her homeland, Iran, and others of people or script that he remembered was Farsi; a low table in between the the couch and chair. He looked over at the kitchen. An easel was near the wall, a half finished black and white painting on the canvas. There was green tea pot, as well as another on the stove giving off the aroma he remembered so well, meat and onions and cinnamon and the sweet of carrots.

But there were differences too. Childish drawings covered the refrigerator. And amid the music or art or travel books on the table were children's books. He recognized one of them, The Illustrated Book of Russian Fairy Tales. Another of Persian stories. And he saw toys in a couple of places.

He looked back at Danya. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. She was a mother. She had become a mother.

And I am a father.

He looked at her, smiled weakly, the butterflies returning. "Thank you for...well, just...thank you." Her smile warmed him- and cut him. Maybe we can...- he stopped that line of thought. He was not here for her. He couldn't open those doors again. Boundaries. He need to keep it light. Going down that road again...no. He just couldn't.

She nodded, but kept her distance. She knew what he was thinking. She always did. She didn't want to give him false hope. Her kindness cut his heart. "I want her to know her father. You're a good man Ivan." Her smile fell as she looked at his bandaged knuckles, saw how he moved, took in the cuts on his lip and the slight bruising under his eye, replaced it with a small frown, deep brown eyes filling with concern. Softly, "You deserve some happiness. Clearly."

She took a breath as if to clear the mood. Walls again. Damn her and her walls. "Anyway, I made your favorite stew. It's Zara's too." She paused, looking at him with a hopeful encouraging smile. "Ready?"

He took a deep breath, ignored the pain, and smiled, nodding. "Yeah. I'm ready."

A dull rain pattered the ground soggy when Tristan pulled into the village. The temperature hovered above the freezing point during the day, sloshing rift-marks into mud-veins that crossed the village center. The only road that was paved in and out was the sole highway that stretched around the Westfjords like a noose. A few hours’ drive along it would take him to Ísafjörður, the de facto capital of the western peninsulas. A couple thousand people called it home, but there was also a hospital, library, even an airport. Ísafjörður was a city compared to the village in which Tristan found himself. Half a day’s walk from his house (a quarter day’s walk by horse & cart assuming all went well), placed him square into the arms of Flateyri.

Flateyri was a fishing village hundreds of years old. More trade filtered in and out by sea than by land, yet the population never swelled beyond a few hundred people. Tourists came through once in a while on their way to the cliffs to watch the puffins play at sunset. Otherwise, Tristan knew everyone. He waved at Svant, an older man that first taught him how to tie a fishing line, when he reined the horse in.
“Good to see you, Tristan,” Svant approached. He was solid and healthy looking as ever. He wasn’t a tree of a hulking man like Tristan’s uncle was, but he was strong as the rocks underfoot.
“You too, Svant.” He replied and let his horse loose into the fence. A little bag was slung over one shoulder, but his smile was warmer than the rest of him.
They clasped hands, but Svant was looking closely in the younger man’s eyes. “Look like you could use a hot drink. Come over?”
Tristan would never turn down drinks. They caught up on the walk to the fisherman’s house.

Elyse woke up, feeling Sierra's warmth next to her.  It wasn't often she woke up before the other wolf-sister, but Elyse's dreams hadn't been so dark as of late.  There were times when she was in the dream with Sierra or Marta - sometimes even both.  Stinging Nose always went into the dream with her, and she was grateful.  Marta was a natural to the life of a wolfkin it seemed. Of course, the young girl had much to learn, but at least she had people to guide her though it.  

Elyse got out of bed and got dressed.  Last night her dreams had been her own and she was well rested.  She put on her jeans and a t-shirt.  Looking at Sierra she wondered.  Did she feel the way she felt because of the break up, or were the emotions she felt genuine, or was it just simply the feeling of being in a pack.  Elyse shook her head.  It was too soon for her to begin feeling those emotions. Stinging Nose sent her confused signals, not knowing how to interpret what was on Elyse's mind.  

Elyse went up the stairs and saw Marta sitting at the table with a plate of bacon.  The first couple of days had Marta with some toast, that had quickly changed to meat - bacon, sausage, or even steak.  It wasn't surprising.  Splash lay down of the floor next to her, eating some raw bacon. 

"Good morning, Marta," Elyse said, sitting next to the girl.

"Good morning," said Marta, looking up from her tablet.  The girl appeared to be doing math - and it seemed really simple for her age.

Splash sent her a greeting and Sting sat next to him, sharing the raw bacon.  Elyse got herself some juice and relaxed.

"Need any help?" Elyse asked her.

Continued from Cabaret & Candy

The directions to Jaxen’s building led the driver from the midtown cabaret theater all the way to Moscow City, the so-named business district that in and of itself operated like a miniature city within a city. Where the area around the Kremlin was steeped in history and antiquity, Moscow City was the mecca of modern civilization. Massive buildings, many world-record-holders for their size and luxury, towered glittering above Moscow River, the massive water that curled its way around the district. High-rises that belied the mind twisted and turned, art-pieces in and of themselves. The one that Jaxen called home was lost in the middle somewhere. A different sort of cat prowled these city streets. For Jaxen, the height was attractive; cats did like to claim to the highest peaks, after all. A building that sold-out in 6-hours after the design debuted was also attractive. He enjoyed his perks.

Jaxen owned a two-level chunk of the high-rise. The door itself recognized him as he approached, and the hefty security system was lifted momentarily. Of course, it made note of all his guests as well, signaled the building staff to prepare delicacies or any other manner of morsel Jaxen might order on a whim. Having enough historical instances of similar gatherings in its system, it already prompted him what he wanted. Liquor, of course, was aplenty within the apartment. Fresh food and catering, on the other hand, would arrive shortly. Perhaps also swimwear and offerings of other laundry services were on standby. One of the balconies, like the others of the building, was a cantilevered pool suspended over the edge of the building-face. It glowed an eerie blue through the windows beyond when they entered. The walls of the apartment rippled and shone like they were living entities suspecting his whim and catering to the atmosphere he was probably most likely to anticipate. In this case, it was one of intimacy, mystery and fun.

“Make yourselves at home,” he announced just before departing to change his own clothes. Maybe it was the quip about the pants, but the attire was suddenly wrong for the occasion.

The apartment was arranged such that the foyer and first level entertaining space greeted them. The style and decorations were sleek and modern, except for a display case housed a number of odd-antiques, many from India, but other cultures could be discerned among the pieces. A kitchen was nearby that appeared to be carved from a single, seamless unit. Smart technology was everywhere. No oven or refrigerator was apparent.

When he returned, he wore a black shirt with a crystal-adorned, horned-skull on the front. Electric blue pants that seemed to flicker along the seams like the points of fiberoptics glowed faintly. His hair was freshly coiffed sinister as the grin on his lips.

It was then that he scanned the members of the party, and what he found was indeed, too many members. A frown creased his forehead. “I’m breaking up the sausage fest, boys. No offense, but we have a severe shortage of girls,” he winked as he plopped into his favorite chair, legs crossed.

Oddly, it wasn’t Aiden that he was watching. It was Sage.

The guy’s head must literally be on fire right then. An addict dropped square into a heroin house and told not to touch the needles. He had a message for "Wicked Truth", but he would wait for Aiden to request the powder-room before sharing it with the hacker.

I want to do something here. This ravine is in Moscow in a park in the real world. It's cloaked in all kinds of mysterious stuff and legends. This is a link to the wikipedia page about it. but if you google it you'll find lots of cool old legends. 


Golosov Ravine

I'm not sure what it is in the first age, but I want to go there and do something. gotta be something significant. since there's lots of connection to paganism, maybe it would be better suited for Valeriya to explore, but if there's something of Atharim interest, rune could have fun there too.

anyway does anyone have any ideas?