06-26-2014, 06:40 PM
Seconds before the doors parted, Nikolai twisted the ring on his thumb and a kaleidoscope of images grazed his field of vision. A few blinks calibrated the images to the intensity of light. The pupil constricted, and in true neurological form, the opposite eye did as well, seeming to unnaturally flare the blue surrounding the black. The touch of his index finger over the ring increased the opacity until they all but faded into the background until he had need of the technology.
In the next breath he reached for the power. Energy poured through him, and although perhaps half as powerful as he thought he could wield, it willed him to be ripped apart. The countenance that resulted from the internal struggle settled a great weight across his expression.
The doors parted and the ballroom of St. Andrew opened before him. Smiles, bows of the head, and flared eyes greeted him from those closest. More than one gasp flittered in the distance, and one by one, eyes of the CCD influential were drawn to the Arcus Band. The collective reaction of those immediately near enough to notice pleased him to no end.
He wore the Arcus like an open-faced laurel, symbolic of rule in the absence of violent conquest. The shape itself was reminiscent of the Double Crescent: dual sickles wrapped about one another that came to sickeningly sharp points near the temple. The color was deeper than the black of Nikolai's hair, which explained the momentary delay for those nearest him to realize its presence. Additional seconds to comprehend the significance.
The Band was originally cast from Russian gold that metallurgists transformed into plasmonic black metal with an incredibly intense beam of laser light that unleashes as much power as the entire electric grid of North America onto a spot the size of a needle point. The blast forces the surface of the metal to form nanostructures that render it capable of absorbing virtually all wavelengths of light - making it geochemically and literally pitch black.
A thin strip of silver lined the top edge of the Arcus: also confiscated from the jewels of the Imperial Treasury. In the back, a knot of metallic orange, burnt as the scorched sun, seemed to hold the two arcs together.
The sharp edges, the lack of color, and the natural mathematical symmetry to the Double Crescent lent the Arcus Band a distinctly futuristic aesthetic. It was his symbol as sure as the flags unfurled around St. Andrew Hall. He wore it proudly.
The faces of the Sphere were the first he greeted. The power nearly overwhelmed his senses, but Nikolai was well practiced at working such a room. He made use of enhanced hearing and vision for twenty-five years. As he did now.
The red carpet guided his path. The dark-haired woman Severina Schneider with her stiff bun and white gown clasped his hand. He spoke a few words into her ear that made her smile, bow her head and step away. He caught the tilt of her eyes float to the Arcus as she did. "Beautiful,"
her lips formed the silent word. Plasmonic metals were state of the art in her field. She would appreciate the rare craftsmanship and intensity of work necessary to create the piece.
The dignified Valentin Sulteev, who should have supplanted Severina as having the right to first's welcome as Privilege of the Central Dominance, stretched his expression into a dry smile when Nik approached. Far nearer Nikolai's age than hers, his patience exuded confidence. He had no need to vie for the Ascendancy's favor. He already held it.
Though in his seventies, Valentin's handshake was firm. Nikolai was genuinely pleased to see him. He was in government work before the fall of the Soviet Union, and they shared a great senses of camaraderie. It was Valentin that was instrumental in Nikolai's rise to the presidency to begin with. Of all those in the Ascendancy's presence, his aged gray eyes best recognized the symbolism of the Arcus Band. As a member of the Custody, he was aware the Ascendancy created his own standard for the empire. As a Russian whose grandfather served the last Tsar, his pride grasped the usage of authoritarian symbols as inspirations of awe. There was something ancient about the Arcus Band, as with the Ascendancy himself, and yet in form and presence, both demanded reverence. "It's fitting, Ascendancy,"
Valentin said. He said no more on the subject but a hint of a smile touched his normally austere expression.
Finally, Nikolai greeted the Privilege of DV. They spoke perhaps almost as frequently these past few days as Nikolai had to anyone. "Your family is well?"
He asked of Al-Rajhi. Unlike the others, the man's gaze was almost too tired to do more than acknowledge the question. "They are safe, Ascendancy."
He pat the man on the arm. "For that, I am glad they escaped the disturbance. Your home is recovering?"
The Privilege nodded, "It was not so bad as I feared. Yet I am in Moscow, and at your service, of course, while my family mends our property."
A small group of hot-headed, fearless insurgents had stormed and damaged the Privilege's home in Dubai. While the family within was adequately protected, the home itself sustained some damage.
Nikolai was not heartless despite the rage of power washing away his empathy. Walls and gardens could be repaired, but perhaps the accompanying fear in his children's and grandchildren's minds were less easy to cleanse. He responded firmly. "Go to them, Daan, when we are done here. Your family needs their leader."
The Privilege blinked something of relief that Nikolai might have missed had he been without the sharpened sense of the power. But there were many more to greet before he reached the podium, and Nikolai bid him luck.
As Daan bowed his head, Nikolai lifted his gaze to scan the crowd beyond. Those eyes brave enough to meet his swiftly melted floorward.
In the next breath he reached for the power. Energy poured through him, and although perhaps half as powerful as he thought he could wield, it willed him to be ripped apart. The countenance that resulted from the internal struggle settled a great weight across his expression.
The doors parted and the ballroom of St. Andrew opened before him. Smiles, bows of the head, and flared eyes greeted him from those closest. More than one gasp flittered in the distance, and one by one, eyes of the CCD influential were drawn to the Arcus Band. The collective reaction of those immediately near enough to notice pleased him to no end.
He wore the Arcus like an open-faced laurel, symbolic of rule in the absence of violent conquest. The shape itself was reminiscent of the Double Crescent: dual sickles wrapped about one another that came to sickeningly sharp points near the temple. The color was deeper than the black of Nikolai's hair, which explained the momentary delay for those nearest him to realize its presence. Additional seconds to comprehend the significance.
The Band was originally cast from Russian gold that metallurgists transformed into plasmonic black metal with an incredibly intense beam of laser light that unleashes as much power as the entire electric grid of North America onto a spot the size of a needle point. The blast forces the surface of the metal to form nanostructures that render it capable of absorbing virtually all wavelengths of light - making it geochemically and literally pitch black.
A thin strip of silver lined the top edge of the Arcus: also confiscated from the jewels of the Imperial Treasury. In the back, a knot of metallic orange, burnt as the scorched sun, seemed to hold the two arcs together.
The sharp edges, the lack of color, and the natural mathematical symmetry to the Double Crescent lent the Arcus Band a distinctly futuristic aesthetic. It was his symbol as sure as the flags unfurled around St. Andrew Hall. He wore it proudly.
The faces of the Sphere were the first he greeted. The power nearly overwhelmed his senses, but Nikolai was well practiced at working such a room. He made use of enhanced hearing and vision for twenty-five years. As he did now.
The red carpet guided his path. The dark-haired woman Severina Schneider with her stiff bun and white gown clasped his hand. He spoke a few words into her ear that made her smile, bow her head and step away. He caught the tilt of her eyes float to the Arcus as she did. "Beautiful,"
her lips formed the silent word. Plasmonic metals were state of the art in her field. She would appreciate the rare craftsmanship and intensity of work necessary to create the piece.
The dignified Valentin Sulteev, who should have supplanted Severina as having the right to first's welcome as Privilege of the Central Dominance, stretched his expression into a dry smile when Nik approached. Far nearer Nikolai's age than hers, his patience exuded confidence. He had no need to vie for the Ascendancy's favor. He already held it.
Though in his seventies, Valentin's handshake was firm. Nikolai was genuinely pleased to see him. He was in government work before the fall of the Soviet Union, and they shared a great senses of camaraderie. It was Valentin that was instrumental in Nikolai's rise to the presidency to begin with. Of all those in the Ascendancy's presence, his aged gray eyes best recognized the symbolism of the Arcus Band. As a member of the Custody, he was aware the Ascendancy created his own standard for the empire. As a Russian whose grandfather served the last Tsar, his pride grasped the usage of authoritarian symbols as inspirations of awe. There was something ancient about the Arcus Band, as with the Ascendancy himself, and yet in form and presence, both demanded reverence. "It's fitting, Ascendancy,"
Valentin said. He said no more on the subject but a hint of a smile touched his normally austere expression.
Finally, Nikolai greeted the Privilege of DV. They spoke perhaps almost as frequently these past few days as Nikolai had to anyone. "Your family is well?"
He asked of Al-Rajhi. Unlike the others, the man's gaze was almost too tired to do more than acknowledge the question. "They are safe, Ascendancy."
He pat the man on the arm. "For that, I am glad they escaped the disturbance. Your home is recovering?"
The Privilege nodded, "It was not so bad as I feared. Yet I am in Moscow, and at your service, of course, while my family mends our property."
A small group of hot-headed, fearless insurgents had stormed and damaged the Privilege's home in Dubai. While the family within was adequately protected, the home itself sustained some damage.
Nikolai was not heartless despite the rage of power washing away his empathy. Walls and gardens could be repaired, but perhaps the accompanying fear in his children's and grandchildren's minds were less easy to cleanse. He responded firmly. "Go to them, Daan, when we are done here. Your family needs their leader."
The Privilege blinked something of relief that Nikolai might have missed had he been without the sharpened sense of the power. But there were many more to greet before he reached the podium, and Nikolai bid him luck.
As Daan bowed his head, Nikolai lifted his gaze to scan the crowd beyond. Those eyes brave enough to meet his swiftly melted floorward.