https://thefirstage.org/forums/ Sun, 26 Apr 2026 20:44:19 +0000 MyBB https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1976.html Thu, 16 Apr 2026 02:04:37 +0000 Alistair Bishop]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1976.html
In Columbus, quiet meant something had gone wrong. Quiet was the moment before the door came in, or the bar went dark, or the ref stopped counting. Quiet was something you filled fast, before it filled you.

He'd been given the membership card three weeks ago. Nadya had slid it across the table like it was nothing, "Mr. Petrovich says you work too hard for what you eat," and gone back to her wine. He hadn't used it until now.

The attendant at the front desk said nothing about the bruising along his jaw. Moscow had trained its people not to comment on that kind of thing. She checked his membership card, confirmed his appointment, and pointed him toward the changing rooms.

The changing room smelled like cedar and eucalyptus. His clothes came off in pieces, each article a record of the last seventy-two hours. He peeled back his shirt and dropped it on the bench without looking at it. The mirror on the wall was unavoidable. He gave himself a few seconds the way he always did before a fight, a quick inventory, nothing sentimental. The bruise along his left side had deepened to dark plum, spreading from under his arm toward his hip where the chain had caught him. His knuckles were scabbed, the right hand worse than the left. His jaw carried a yellowish shadow just below the cheekbone, old enough now to be fading. The rest of him looked the way it always looked: the kind of body that had been through too much to carry any softness. His shoulders and chest were thick from years of grappling, his arms ropy with the kind of muscle that came from use rather than a gym mirror. His stomach was flat and hard, every line of him pulled tight, skin sitting close to the muscle beneath it. The bruises and the scars sat on top of all of it like decoration, like proof. It was armor, was what it was. The kind you couldn't take off. He looked like a man nothing could touch. He looked, if you didn't know any better, like a man who had never been afraid of anything in his life.

Still alive. That has to count for something.

The massage room was private, warm, low-lit. Amber. The kind of silence that cost money. He stretched out face-down on the table, naked save for the towel draped low across his hips, forehead in the cradle, arms loose, jaw unclenched. The leather was warm beneath his chest and stomach. He could feel his own heartbeat against it.

She knocked before entering. He noted that. She gave her name and he gave his and that was the end of conversation.

She was young, dark-haired, with the kind of quiet that wasn't shyness. She moved through the room like she owned the square footage, unhurried, setting her oil on the side table and folding the towel down to the small of his back before settling at the foot of the table. Her eyes made one unhurried pass over him before she began. Professional. But not indifferent.]]>
In Columbus, quiet meant something had gone wrong. Quiet was the moment before the door came in, or the bar went dark, or the ref stopped counting. Quiet was something you filled fast, before it filled you.

He'd been given the membership card three weeks ago. Nadya had slid it across the table like it was nothing, "Mr. Petrovich says you work too hard for what you eat," and gone back to her wine. He hadn't used it until now.

The attendant at the front desk said nothing about the bruising along his jaw. Moscow had trained its people not to comment on that kind of thing. She checked his membership card, confirmed his appointment, and pointed him toward the changing rooms.

The changing room smelled like cedar and eucalyptus. His clothes came off in pieces, each article a record of the last seventy-two hours. He peeled back his shirt and dropped it on the bench without looking at it. The mirror on the wall was unavoidable. He gave himself a few seconds the way he always did before a fight, a quick inventory, nothing sentimental. The bruise along his left side had deepened to dark plum, spreading from under his arm toward his hip where the chain had caught him. His knuckles were scabbed, the right hand worse than the left. His jaw carried a yellowish shadow just below the cheekbone, old enough now to be fading. The rest of him looked the way it always looked: the kind of body that had been through too much to carry any softness. His shoulders and chest were thick from years of grappling, his arms ropy with the kind of muscle that came from use rather than a gym mirror. His stomach was flat and hard, every line of him pulled tight, skin sitting close to the muscle beneath it. The bruises and the scars sat on top of all of it like decoration, like proof. It was armor, was what it was. The kind you couldn't take off. He looked like a man nothing could touch. He looked, if you didn't know any better, like a man who had never been afraid of anything in his life.

Still alive. That has to count for something.

The massage room was private, warm, low-lit. Amber. The kind of silence that cost money. He stretched out face-down on the table, naked save for the towel draped low across his hips, forehead in the cradle, arms loose, jaw unclenched. The leather was warm beneath his chest and stomach. He could feel his own heartbeat against it.

She knocked before entering. He noted that. She gave her name and he gave his and that was the end of conversation.

She was young, dark-haired, with the kind of quiet that wasn't shyness. She moved through the room like she owned the square footage, unhurried, setting her oil on the side table and folding the towel down to the small of his back before settling at the foot of the table. Her eyes made one unhurried pass over him before she began. Professional. But not indifferent.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1975.html Fri, 03 Apr 2026 15:31:24 +0000 Giovanni]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1975.html
Giovanni still didn’t know why she had asked him to come with her after the ordeal with Zholdin. All he knew was when Grym beckoned, he had followed. Outside of the gopnik club, the voices inside had become completely silent again. The specters inside that fed on chaos were gone, replaced only by calm. It was an odd feeling - a feeling Giovanni hadn’t felt since he had left the Atharim. It was a feeling Giovanni was still trying to figure out. 

Giovanni was sure Grym didn’t like him. He was equally sure she wanted to kill him, but as of yet, hadn’t done so. He didn’t know why. He hadn’t asked. In fact, he had barely spoken since they had left the club, answering only when spoken to, and even then, he spoke will generally monosyllabic answers. She still knew him as “Dante.” He hadn’t given her his real name yet or the name he had buried when he had fled. He hadn’t asked her anything, but when they had gotten some supplies, he had paid his fair share for them. He hadn’t even asked about the dreykan head. He knew she had wanted it, but didn’t know if she had swiped it from under Zholdin’s nose or not. 

The silence wasn’t morose. He was quiet, but it was content. That was something else he hadn’t felt for a long time. The thought that existing was enough. It was all odd, and that is what led to the silence. He wasn’t being speculative and trying to figure out if he liked this or not. He had made no contact with Omar - who was probably freaking out by now, but Giovanni didn’t worry about that. He almost had no desire to return to Egypt, or go anywhere else. 

His eyes looked around and landed on the car. Giovanni knew little about cars, but he knew enough to know that this one wasn’t a new one. They didn’t make cars like that anymore, but despite the age it was very well maintained. Grym took care of the vehicle. It was probably very important to her. So when Giovanni decided to speak it was to be about the car - something that his host found interesting, even if he had no idea what to say about it.

Giovanni remained seated, his eyes on the car. ”Interesting car - you don’t see them like that anymore.” his voice was measured and calm and he spoke as if this was completely natural, despite it being the first full sentence he had spoken since they had left the club. ”How long have you had it?”]]>
Giovanni still didn’t know why she had asked him to come with her after the ordeal with Zholdin. All he knew was when Grym beckoned, he had followed. Outside of the gopnik club, the voices inside had become completely silent again. The specters inside that fed on chaos were gone, replaced only by calm. It was an odd feeling - a feeling Giovanni hadn’t felt since he had left the Atharim. It was a feeling Giovanni was still trying to figure out. 

Giovanni was sure Grym didn’t like him. He was equally sure she wanted to kill him, but as of yet, hadn’t done so. He didn’t know why. He hadn’t asked. In fact, he had barely spoken since they had left the club, answering only when spoken to, and even then, he spoke will generally monosyllabic answers. She still knew him as “Dante.” He hadn’t given her his real name yet or the name he had buried when he had fled. He hadn’t asked her anything, but when they had gotten some supplies, he had paid his fair share for them. He hadn’t even asked about the dreykan head. He knew she had wanted it, but didn’t know if she had swiped it from under Zholdin’s nose or not. 

The silence wasn’t morose. He was quiet, but it was content. That was something else he hadn’t felt for a long time. The thought that existing was enough. It was all odd, and that is what led to the silence. He wasn’t being speculative and trying to figure out if he liked this or not. He had made no contact with Omar - who was probably freaking out by now, but Giovanni didn’t worry about that. He almost had no desire to return to Egypt, or go anywhere else. 

His eyes looked around and landed on the car. Giovanni knew little about cars, but he knew enough to know that this one wasn’t a new one. They didn’t make cars like that anymore, but despite the age it was very well maintained. Grym took care of the vehicle. It was probably very important to her. So when Giovanni decided to speak it was to be about the car - something that his host found interesting, even if he had no idea what to say about it.

Giovanni remained seated, his eyes on the car. ”Interesting car - you don’t see them like that anymore.” his voice was measured and calm and he spoke as if this was completely natural, despite it being the first full sentence he had spoken since they had left the club. ”How long have you had it?”]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1974.html Tue, 10 Mar 2026 15:12:25 +0000 Enrique]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1974.html
But with the threats being diminished, that meant the rumors of weirdness had more credibility. There were a couple of rumors that grabbed Ricky’s attention. A old woman needing help and who went with her didn’t come back. Another woman who seemed possessed. So it could be multiple things. A harpy was most likely for the first. The second could be a wefuke or a ijiraq. Still both were worth investigating further. He hoped for the harpy. He could kill that without killing a person too.  

So Ricky packed up his pistols and loaded a backpack with extra ammo, rations, and a change of clothing. Carrying a damn near corpse like Nox on his back had made the change of clothing a standard in his go bag now. He also carried several fully charged power packs. He had told Hayden he had been an Eagle Scout. That hadn’t been a lie. He was always ready. On top of that, he was glad he had made friends with Nox. The mapping of the tunnels came in handy. 

Ricky had no magic so he had to use mundane things to see in the darkness he had a light clipped to his coat that allowed him to keep his hands free in case he had to pull out his fire arms. A noise in a side tunnel caught his attention. It could be anything - a person, a creature, a cat, or any thing else. But he was searching for a monster. He moved down the side tunnel to see what was there. Perhaps his quarry was in this direction.]]>
But with the threats being diminished, that meant the rumors of weirdness had more credibility. There were a couple of rumors that grabbed Ricky’s attention. A old woman needing help and who went with her didn’t come back. Another woman who seemed possessed. So it could be multiple things. A harpy was most likely for the first. The second could be a wefuke or a ijiraq. Still both were worth investigating further. He hoped for the harpy. He could kill that without killing a person too.  

So Ricky packed up his pistols and loaded a backpack with extra ammo, rations, and a change of clothing. Carrying a damn near corpse like Nox on his back had made the change of clothing a standard in his go bag now. He also carried several fully charged power packs. He had told Hayden he had been an Eagle Scout. That hadn’t been a lie. He was always ready. On top of that, he was glad he had made friends with Nox. The mapping of the tunnels came in handy. 

Ricky had no magic so he had to use mundane things to see in the darkness he had a light clipped to his coat that allowed him to keep his hands free in case he had to pull out his fire arms. A noise in a side tunnel caught his attention. It could be anything - a person, a creature, a cat, or any thing else. But he was searching for a monster. He moved down the side tunnel to see what was there. Perhaps his quarry was in this direction.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1973.html Wed, 04 Mar 2026 21:31:06 +0000 Quinn]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1973.html "Wick"

By Quinn Decimus
(Published in Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine)
On the night the power went out across her block in Portland, Marianna lit a candle that smelled like oranges and clove. She liked the small, obedient sun of it—the way it made the kitchen gentler, the cabinets less accusatory, the clock less loud.

She blew it out before bed and, for a second, felt a soft tug behind her eyes. Not pain. Not dizziness. Just the faintest unspooling, as if a thread had slipped free from a hem somewhere far away.

The next morning, her phone chimed with a message from her sister in Chicago. Did we go to the coast when we were kids? I can’t remember the ocean at all.

Marianna smiled at first. Their mother had hated sand; the ocean had been a pilgrimage they’d made only once, a thin, windy afternoon of salt and kites. How could anyone forget that?

She called her sister and described it: the gray sweep of water, the sting of it, the way their father had buried their ankles and declared them mermaids. Her sister listened politely. “It sounds nice,” she said, uncertain. “I just don’t have it.”

After they hung up, Marianna went very still.

That night, she lit the candle again. She watched the wick bow in its small halo. She thought about the tug. About the coast. About how forgetting is sometimes a mercy. She blew.

In a diner outside Boise, a man paused over his coffee, the spoon suspended mid-clink. He frowned at the sugar bowl as if it had insulted him. Across the booth, his wife laughed about a story he’d told a thousand times—the night he’d met her in the rain. He stared at her, baffled by the shine in her eyes.

“Have we been here before?” he asked.

The tug came again, stronger now, like a stitch pulled tight. Marianna didn’t sleep.

She tested it the next evening with a tea light. She chose carefully, as if selecting a star to pinch out. She blew, then waited. Her phone buzzed before the smoke had thinned.

Mom forgot her sister’s birthday, her own sister wrote. She swears Aunt Lina is older than her. Aunt Lina had died in April. Younger by three years.

Marianna pressed her hand to her mouth. She understood then. The wick was not only a sun; it was a fuse. Each breath a small extinction, somewhere else.

The candle didn’t care. It waited to be useful.

Marianna began to pay attention to the news. A petty criminal in Tucson who couldn’t recall where he’d stashed a stolen car. A pianist in Montreal who blanked on the middle of a nocturne she’d played since childhood. A mayor in Topeka who forgot the name of the river that cut his town in two. Each story felt like smoke on her tongue.

She tried an experiment. She wrote down a memory she could live without: the day her father left, suitcase yawning like a mouth. She described the bruise-colored sky, the way the screen door coughed shut. She lit the candle and held the paper above it until the edges browned. Then she blew out the flame and waited for the tug.

It came, but it was not her father that loosened. In Savannah, a woman forgot the sound of her mother’s voice.

Marianna knew because the woman called into a late-night radio show she sometimes listened to, her words unraveling on air. “It’s gone,” the caller whispered. “I can see her lips moving in my mind, but there’s no sound.” The tug hurt this time. It snagged.

Marianna understood the rule: the candle took at random. Distance was irrelevant. Deserving, irrelevant. The wick was a lottery for loss.

She stopped lighting it.

But the house was darker than it had ever been. The dark was not absence; it was a pressure. It pressed her toward the drawer where the candle lay. It pressed her toward the thought of mercy. Somewhere, surely, were memories too heavy to carry. Somewhere, someone prayed to forget. She imagined hospital rooms. Courtrooms. Bedrooms where apologies had curdled.

She lit the candle.

“I don’t know who you are,” she whispered to the flame, to the miles it would leap. “But I’m trying to be kind.”

She blew.

In Cleveland, a man woke without the memory of the accident that had taken his son. He rose and made coffee, humming. He noticed the empty bedroom and felt only a vague architectural confusion, as if a wall had been moved.

Marianna felt the tug—violent, wrenching—and then a sudden, ringing quiet. The quiet frightened her most. It suggested a balance.

Over the next weeks, she lit and blew with intention. She did not do it often. She did not do it lightly. She watched for stories of relief. A veteran in Helena who slept through the night for the first time in years. A widow in Burlington who could pass the park bench without folding in half. But there were other stories too. A child in El Paso who forgot the way home from school. A surgeon in Raleigh who hesitated mid-incision, uncertain of a name she had known like her own.

Marianna began to understand the arithmetic of fire: for every burden lifted, a compass spun. For every mercy, a map erased.

One night, unable to bear the ledger, she carried the candle to the sink. She meant to drown it in a decisive rush. But the wick was stubborn; it floated, a small black spine. She set it upright again. She lit it. The kitchen filled with oranges and clove. The flame leaned toward her as if listening.

Marianna thought of the coast—the one memory her sister had lost. She tried to hold it steady in her mind: the cold lick of water, her father’s laughter before it soured, the kite’s red tail scribbling against the sky.

She blew.

The tug was enormous. It tore through her like wind through a screen door. For a moment she could not remember her own name.

Miles away—she would never know where—someone released something sharp enough to draw blood from the inside. Someone exhaled.

When the smoke cleared, Marianna stood in a kitchen that felt gently unfamiliar. The cabinets were simply wood. The clock, a circle. On the table lay a stub of candle, scent fading. She picked it up, turning it in her fingers, curious about its smallness. Outside, the power flickered back on across the block in Portland. Lights bloomed in windows like a field of cautious stars.


Marianna looked at the switch on the wall, considering. She did not know what she had given. She did not know what she had taken. She only knew that somewhere, someone was lighter. And somewhere else, a story had gone dark.

((Written by AI))]]> "Wick"

By Quinn Decimus
(Published in Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine)
On the night the power went out across her block in Portland, Marianna lit a candle that smelled like oranges and clove. She liked the small, obedient sun of it—the way it made the kitchen gentler, the cabinets less accusatory, the clock less loud.

She blew it out before bed and, for a second, felt a soft tug behind her eyes. Not pain. Not dizziness. Just the faintest unspooling, as if a thread had slipped free from a hem somewhere far away.

The next morning, her phone chimed with a message from her sister in Chicago. Did we go to the coast when we were kids? I can’t remember the ocean at all.

Marianna smiled at first. Their mother had hated sand; the ocean had been a pilgrimage they’d made only once, a thin, windy afternoon of salt and kites. How could anyone forget that?

She called her sister and described it: the gray sweep of water, the sting of it, the way their father had buried their ankles and declared them mermaids. Her sister listened politely. “It sounds nice,” she said, uncertain. “I just don’t have it.”

After they hung up, Marianna went very still.

That night, she lit the candle again. She watched the wick bow in its small halo. She thought about the tug. About the coast. About how forgetting is sometimes a mercy. She blew.

In a diner outside Boise, a man paused over his coffee, the spoon suspended mid-clink. He frowned at the sugar bowl as if it had insulted him. Across the booth, his wife laughed about a story he’d told a thousand times—the night he’d met her in the rain. He stared at her, baffled by the shine in her eyes.

“Have we been here before?” he asked.

The tug came again, stronger now, like a stitch pulled tight. Marianna didn’t sleep.

She tested it the next evening with a tea light. She chose carefully, as if selecting a star to pinch out. She blew, then waited. Her phone buzzed before the smoke had thinned.

Mom forgot her sister’s birthday, her own sister wrote. She swears Aunt Lina is older than her. Aunt Lina had died in April. Younger by three years.

Marianna pressed her hand to her mouth. She understood then. The wick was not only a sun; it was a fuse. Each breath a small extinction, somewhere else.

The candle didn’t care. It waited to be useful.

Marianna began to pay attention to the news. A petty criminal in Tucson who couldn’t recall where he’d stashed a stolen car. A pianist in Montreal who blanked on the middle of a nocturne she’d played since childhood. A mayor in Topeka who forgot the name of the river that cut his town in two. Each story felt like smoke on her tongue.

She tried an experiment. She wrote down a memory she could live without: the day her father left, suitcase yawning like a mouth. She described the bruise-colored sky, the way the screen door coughed shut. She lit the candle and held the paper above it until the edges browned. Then she blew out the flame and waited for the tug.

It came, but it was not her father that loosened. In Savannah, a woman forgot the sound of her mother’s voice.

Marianna knew because the woman called into a late-night radio show she sometimes listened to, her words unraveling on air. “It’s gone,” the caller whispered. “I can see her lips moving in my mind, but there’s no sound.” The tug hurt this time. It snagged.

Marianna understood the rule: the candle took at random. Distance was irrelevant. Deserving, irrelevant. The wick was a lottery for loss.

She stopped lighting it.

But the house was darker than it had ever been. The dark was not absence; it was a pressure. It pressed her toward the drawer where the candle lay. It pressed her toward the thought of mercy. Somewhere, surely, were memories too heavy to carry. Somewhere, someone prayed to forget. She imagined hospital rooms. Courtrooms. Bedrooms where apologies had curdled.

She lit the candle.

“I don’t know who you are,” she whispered to the flame, to the miles it would leap. “But I’m trying to be kind.”

She blew.

In Cleveland, a man woke without the memory of the accident that had taken his son. He rose and made coffee, humming. He noticed the empty bedroom and felt only a vague architectural confusion, as if a wall had been moved.

Marianna felt the tug—violent, wrenching—and then a sudden, ringing quiet. The quiet frightened her most. It suggested a balance.

Over the next weeks, she lit and blew with intention. She did not do it often. She did not do it lightly. She watched for stories of relief. A veteran in Helena who slept through the night for the first time in years. A widow in Burlington who could pass the park bench without folding in half. But there were other stories too. A child in El Paso who forgot the way home from school. A surgeon in Raleigh who hesitated mid-incision, uncertain of a name she had known like her own.

Marianna began to understand the arithmetic of fire: for every burden lifted, a compass spun. For every mercy, a map erased.

One night, unable to bear the ledger, she carried the candle to the sink. She meant to drown it in a decisive rush. But the wick was stubborn; it floated, a small black spine. She set it upright again. She lit it. The kitchen filled with oranges and clove. The flame leaned toward her as if listening.

Marianna thought of the coast—the one memory her sister had lost. She tried to hold it steady in her mind: the cold lick of water, her father’s laughter before it soured, the kite’s red tail scribbling against the sky.

She blew.

The tug was enormous. It tore through her like wind through a screen door. For a moment she could not remember her own name.

Miles away—she would never know where—someone released something sharp enough to draw blood from the inside. Someone exhaled.

When the smoke cleared, Marianna stood in a kitchen that felt gently unfamiliar. The cabinets were simply wood. The clock, a circle. On the table lay a stub of candle, scent fading. She picked it up, turning it in her fingers, curious about its smallness. Outside, the power flickered back on across the block in Portland. Lights bloomed in windows like a field of cautious stars.


Marianna looked at the switch on the wall, considering. She did not know what she had given. She did not know what she had taken. She only knew that somewhere, someone was lighter. And somewhere else, a story had gone dark.

((Written by AI))]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1972.html Sun, 01 Mar 2026 02:24:54 +0000 Quinn]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1972.html
Age: 26

Origin: Rivington Folly, England; Moscow

Occupation: Aspiring Novelist

Psychological Description of Character: Quinn isn’t unhappy, but she often feels like she doesn’t belong and is lonely for reasons she doesn’t understand. An introverted extrovert, she likes to be around people, but is often quiet, speaking when she has something to add or is excited.

Physical Description: 5’5” tall with blonde hair and green eyes. 

Supernatural Powers: Vidient - VIII: The Flame

Reborn God: Eurydice

---

A Special Child

Quinn was raised at Rivington Folly, a large and private estate hidden away in the lush green of rural England. He lived amongst other children of varying ages, a rotation of nannies, a staff of liveried servants, and the Mothers. The children were home-schooled and received an esoteric education in addition to the usual curriculum. Naturally this also included decorum and etiquette. Healthcare was handled in-house via the private med-suite on site, and medical and psychic testing was performed regularly. Though all the children were named, they were also assigned numbers. Quinn was number ten, so was given the surname Decimus.

Quinn began to speak later in life than most children, and originally the Mothers thought that she may be developmentally delayed, but this was not the case. Quinn was an abnormally quiet child. She even cried less than most. Examinations revealed her to be completely healthy and of sound mind. She simply just didn’t speak much unless she wanted to.

As an infant and a toddler, it was noticed that Quinn had a strange interest in candles. She would often point them out and (to the dismay of the nannies and Mothers) reach for them.  She was five when she first realized she was different than the others in her family and they began to realize what her fascination with candles was about.

Quinn would see candles next to people and until one of her brothers, feeling down and dejected due to a failure, realized that only she saw these candles. She told the Mothers that his candle was out. At first they didn’t understand, but they would soon realize that Quinn was special. She told them that she saw candles around people, sometimes bright and sometimes dim.  Usually they were just normal candles.

The unusual ability attracted the attention of Magnus Asquith, who Quinn met at age seven. Eventually she would know that Magnus was her father. Periodically, he would see her, and she noticed that she was one of the few. Her and her brother Lucien were among them.

Relationship with Lucien

Lucien she would learn also had special abilities. He could read the history of objects. Being one of the few Folly children that had special abilities, Quinn felt a stronger connection with her older brother. She began to confide in him, and he, along with the Mothers would help her begin to understand her ability.

Quinn trusted Lucien and so she shared with him something she hadn’t shared with others. She told him that she often felt like she didn’t fit in or belong. It was little things that made her feel this way. She was blonde and the rest of the children had dark, Asquith hair. Like him, she had a special power, but didn’t know how it fit in with anything. She confessed to Lucien that she often felt alone, despite no logical reason not to. Lucien was always supportive, offering comfort when needed. 

At 18, Lucien would begin to travel. This increased her sense of loneliness, but Lucien kept in contact. Lucien was a bit old-fashioned, so she would often get letters from him. She treasured them.

Learning to Understand Her Ability

In order to understand the meaning of her candles, Quinn began to journal. When someone’s candle flared, she would simply ask the person what was happening. When the candle was gutted, she would gently ask what was wrong. Soon enough she noticed the pattern. When the candle was bright, that person was feeling hopeful. When it was gutted, they were feeling despair. But there was more. Quinn noticed that she could change the candle herself.  She could make the candle brighter or dimmer. She discovered this by mistake, but practiced it seldomly. She didn’t want to hurt her family.

Academics

Quinn was very intelligent and being homeschooled let her work at her own pace. A lover of reading, it was odd to find her without a book, but unlike her brother Lucien, she preferred fiction. She excelled in her literature classes.

Journaling in order to learn her ability gave her a love for writing as well. It was natural for her to combine her love of reading and writing.  Quinn began writing stories for fun, but it became a love for her and it eased the feelings of loneliness. 

She graduated at 18 and learned the secrets of the Di Inferi although she never officially joined the order. After graduation, she would travel to Moscow to study Literature at the University. Four years later, she obtained a Bachelor’s degree in Literature. She immediately moved into a Master’s program and began sending short stories and novel manuscripts to literary magazines and publishers. In 2045, Lucien relocated to Moscow, and Quinn enlisted his services as a beta reader. Mostly she received rejections. In 2046, the year she earned her Masters Degree, a literary magazine published one of her short stories. It wouldn’t be until January 2047 that a publisher would purchase her first manuscript for a novel to publish.  After many rejections, her career was finally beginning.

Quinn's Literary Style

Primarily, Quinn writes literary speculative fiction. Secondary influences include gothic fiction, psychological drama, occult realism, and philosophical fantasy.

Her works blend:

• Subtle paranormal elements (rather than loud fantasy)
  
• Emotional interiority and loneliness
  
• Found family and fractured lineage
  
• Moral ambiguity around power
  
• Atmospheric, candlelit gothic tones
  
• Themes of belonging, legacy, and inherited purpose
  
• Letters, journals, and layered narrative structures
  

She does not write loud, action-heavy fantasy. Instead, she writes haunting, reflective novels where the supernatural reveals emotional truth.

Published Works

Short Story: “Wick” - A woman discovers that when she blows out a candle, someone miles away forgets a memory. Published in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine

Novel: Ashes Do Not Forget - Manuscript purchased by Eksmo-AST Publishing Group]]>
Age: 26

Origin: Rivington Folly, England; Moscow

Occupation: Aspiring Novelist

Psychological Description of Character: Quinn isn’t unhappy, but she often feels like she doesn’t belong and is lonely for reasons she doesn’t understand. An introverted extrovert, she likes to be around people, but is often quiet, speaking when she has something to add or is excited.

Physical Description: 5’5” tall with blonde hair and green eyes. 

Supernatural Powers: Vidient - VIII: The Flame

Reborn God: Eurydice

---

A Special Child

Quinn was raised at Rivington Folly, a large and private estate hidden away in the lush green of rural England. He lived amongst other children of varying ages, a rotation of nannies, a staff of liveried servants, and the Mothers. The children were home-schooled and received an esoteric education in addition to the usual curriculum. Naturally this also included decorum and etiquette. Healthcare was handled in-house via the private med-suite on site, and medical and psychic testing was performed regularly. Though all the children were named, they were also assigned numbers. Quinn was number ten, so was given the surname Decimus.

Quinn began to speak later in life than most children, and originally the Mothers thought that she may be developmentally delayed, but this was not the case. Quinn was an abnormally quiet child. She even cried less than most. Examinations revealed her to be completely healthy and of sound mind. She simply just didn’t speak much unless she wanted to.

As an infant and a toddler, it was noticed that Quinn had a strange interest in candles. She would often point them out and (to the dismay of the nannies and Mothers) reach for them.  She was five when she first realized she was different than the others in her family and they began to realize what her fascination with candles was about.

Quinn would see candles next to people and until one of her brothers, feeling down and dejected due to a failure, realized that only she saw these candles. She told the Mothers that his candle was out. At first they didn’t understand, but they would soon realize that Quinn was special. She told them that she saw candles around people, sometimes bright and sometimes dim.  Usually they were just normal candles.

The unusual ability attracted the attention of Magnus Asquith, who Quinn met at age seven. Eventually she would know that Magnus was her father. Periodically, he would see her, and she noticed that she was one of the few. Her and her brother Lucien were among them.

Relationship with Lucien

Lucien she would learn also had special abilities. He could read the history of objects. Being one of the few Folly children that had special abilities, Quinn felt a stronger connection with her older brother. She began to confide in him, and he, along with the Mothers would help her begin to understand her ability.

Quinn trusted Lucien and so she shared with him something she hadn’t shared with others. She told him that she often felt like she didn’t fit in or belong. It was little things that made her feel this way. She was blonde and the rest of the children had dark, Asquith hair. Like him, she had a special power, but didn’t know how it fit in with anything. She confessed to Lucien that she often felt alone, despite no logical reason not to. Lucien was always supportive, offering comfort when needed. 

At 18, Lucien would begin to travel. This increased her sense of loneliness, but Lucien kept in contact. Lucien was a bit old-fashioned, so she would often get letters from him. She treasured them.

Learning to Understand Her Ability

In order to understand the meaning of her candles, Quinn began to journal. When someone’s candle flared, she would simply ask the person what was happening. When the candle was gutted, she would gently ask what was wrong. Soon enough she noticed the pattern. When the candle was bright, that person was feeling hopeful. When it was gutted, they were feeling despair. But there was more. Quinn noticed that she could change the candle herself.  She could make the candle brighter or dimmer. She discovered this by mistake, but practiced it seldomly. She didn’t want to hurt her family.

Academics

Quinn was very intelligent and being homeschooled let her work at her own pace. A lover of reading, it was odd to find her without a book, but unlike her brother Lucien, she preferred fiction. She excelled in her literature classes.

Journaling in order to learn her ability gave her a love for writing as well. It was natural for her to combine her love of reading and writing.  Quinn began writing stories for fun, but it became a love for her and it eased the feelings of loneliness. 

She graduated at 18 and learned the secrets of the Di Inferi although she never officially joined the order. After graduation, she would travel to Moscow to study Literature at the University. Four years later, she obtained a Bachelor’s degree in Literature. She immediately moved into a Master’s program and began sending short stories and novel manuscripts to literary magazines and publishers. In 2045, Lucien relocated to Moscow, and Quinn enlisted his services as a beta reader. Mostly she received rejections. In 2046, the year she earned her Masters Degree, a literary magazine published one of her short stories. It wouldn’t be until January 2047 that a publisher would purchase her first manuscript for a novel to publish.  After many rejections, her career was finally beginning.

Quinn's Literary Style

Primarily, Quinn writes literary speculative fiction. Secondary influences include gothic fiction, psychological drama, occult realism, and philosophical fantasy.

Her works blend:

• Subtle paranormal elements (rather than loud fantasy)
  
• Emotional interiority and loneliness
  
• Found family and fractured lineage
  
• Moral ambiguity around power
  
• Atmospheric, candlelit gothic tones
  
• Themes of belonging, legacy, and inherited purpose
  
• Letters, journals, and layered narrative structures
  

She does not write loud, action-heavy fantasy. Instead, she writes haunting, reflective novels where the supernatural reveals emotional truth.

Published Works

Short Story: “Wick” - A woman discovers that when she blows out a candle, someone miles away forgets a memory. Published in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine

Novel: Ashes Do Not Forget - Manuscript purchased by Eksmo-AST Publishing Group]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1971.html Thu, 26 Feb 2026 01:39:22 +0000 Kaelan]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1971.html Zone felt unreal. Kaelan kept waiting for symptoms. On the drive back to the airport, he monitored himself obsessively checking his pupils in the rearview mirror, palpating the lymph nodes at his jaw, tracking his heart rate on the portable wallet-sync patch still adhered beneath his collarbone. He half-expected nausea, vertigo, and a metallic taste blooming across his tongue any minute but nothing came.

Nazariy sat beside him in the transport van. He did not marvel at the paved roads or the returning traffic. He didn’t ask questions. He simply watched. At the checkpoint, Kaelan insisted on a radiation scan. Twice. The portable dosimeter passed over his body in smooth arcs. Elevated exposure, yes, but not catastrophic. Within tolerable limits for short-term presence. Kaelan reasoned that his bone marrow would survive. His genome, for now, remained obedient, but he was going to do advanced testing on himself weekly for the next six months just in case. By the time they boarded the jet to Moscow, Kaelan’s anxiety had thinned to a manageable hum. He could think again and strategize. He had done it. He had walked into Chernobyl and walked out unconsumed. And he had brought something with him.

Moscow rose in glass and light. After the skeletal silence of Pripyat, the city felt obscenely alive, with traffic highways like glowing arteries and towers piercing the clouds like spears. Paragon dominated the research district. The skyscraper twisted upward in elegant defiance of gravity, its surface reflecting sky and garden alike. Kaelan allowed himself the smallest flicker of pride as he watched Nazariy’s reaction. “This,” he said quietly, adjusting his coat, “is where real work happens.”

They crossed through the main entrance. Replica technologies stood in illuminated cases like relics of a benevolent future: bionic limbs with synth-skin seamless as flesh, retinal implants displayed in rotating holographic projection, testimonials glowing in soft blue script overhead. The AI assist chimed gently as they stepped inside. “Welcome to Paragon Group. How may I assist you today?”

Kaelan ignored it. He didn’t need assistance. He belonged here, and a glance at the scanner’s direction should flag the system of his arrival within seconds. The human receptionist recognized him immediately however. Clearance codes transferred with a subtle flick of his wrist against the security panel, and the elevators opened without delay. Nazariy’s reflection multiplied in the mirrored walls as they ascended. Like the various high clearance divisions, the Genome Division required deeper clearance. So did Ascendant, and Kaelan had both.

Before anything else, he routed himself through Medical. Full panel bloodwork. Bone marrow scan. Rapid cytogenetic screening. Gamma burden quantification. Nanoscopic sweep for foreign bioactivity. He submitted to it all with clipped impatience, standing beneath white light while machines hummed around him. Hours later, preliminary results populated his tablet, but he only gave it a cursory scan before taking a deeper dive into the results once he could be alone. It was enough to feel clean, for now.

Nazariy, meanwhile, drew attention. Not alarm, but curiosity. He’d already informed Ephraim and the team of Nazariy’s imminent arrival as a research subject. Given that he had no birth certificate or any legal existence at all, Paragon had special ways to hand wave the paperwork.

“He’s with me,” Kaelan said simply whenever he was asked. That was enough for the underlings.

Temporary residential quarters were arranged in one of Paragon’s internal housing levels similar to the controlled accommodations used for certain research participants. It was comfortable, but most important, it was  ontained.

The room had reinforced walls and discreet monitoring systems embedded behind panels as well as adjustable climate control, private washroom, and fresh clothing laid out. Real food would be delivered on a schedule.
Not a cell, but not entirely freedom either.

Kaelan watched Nazariy take in the space. The clean lines. The absence of rot. The quiet hum of climate filtration.

“You’ll be comfortable here,” Kaelan assured him. “Safer than the Zone. No Shaykra. I promise.”

Testing protocols were already drafting themselves in his mind. Controlled exposure trials. Dermal response mapping. Electromagnetic field analysis during spore activation. Genetic sequencing. Whole genome comparison against baseline human markers. Epigenetic irregularities. Possible chimerism screening. Proteomic profiling.

And the spores.

He had secured many viable samples from the concrete smear. Stored in negative-pressure containment in Genome Division.

If the black responded to Nazariy biologically, pheromonally, thermally, or electromagnetically, Paragon would find the mechanism. And if it was something more…

His thoughts flickered briefly toward Ascendant Division. Toward the gap between channelers and non-channelers. Toward Project Visakanya. Toward severance.

What if this wasn’t fungus? What if it was a superintelligence interface? Kaelan clasped his hands behind his back, watching Nazariy from across the room.

“You’ll rest tonight,” he said, voice measured. “Tomorrow we begin.”

He felt that thrill from the concrete slab in Chernobyl again. The moment the black recoiled from him but embraced Nazariy. This wasn’t just discovery. It was leverage. And for the first time since Shayka stripped him to shivering bone, Kaelan felt something stronger than fear.

Control.

Until then, he had to meet personally with Ephraim and explain everything man to man.]]> Zone felt unreal. Kaelan kept waiting for symptoms. On the drive back to the airport, he monitored himself obsessively checking his pupils in the rearview mirror, palpating the lymph nodes at his jaw, tracking his heart rate on the portable wallet-sync patch still adhered beneath his collarbone. He half-expected nausea, vertigo, and a metallic taste blooming across his tongue any minute but nothing came.

Nazariy sat beside him in the transport van. He did not marvel at the paved roads or the returning traffic. He didn’t ask questions. He simply watched. At the checkpoint, Kaelan insisted on a radiation scan. Twice. The portable dosimeter passed over his body in smooth arcs. Elevated exposure, yes, but not catastrophic. Within tolerable limits for short-term presence. Kaelan reasoned that his bone marrow would survive. His genome, for now, remained obedient, but he was going to do advanced testing on himself weekly for the next six months just in case. By the time they boarded the jet to Moscow, Kaelan’s anxiety had thinned to a manageable hum. He could think again and strategize. He had done it. He had walked into Chernobyl and walked out unconsumed. And he had brought something with him.

Moscow rose in glass and light. After the skeletal silence of Pripyat, the city felt obscenely alive, with traffic highways like glowing arteries and towers piercing the clouds like spears. Paragon dominated the research district. The skyscraper twisted upward in elegant defiance of gravity, its surface reflecting sky and garden alike. Kaelan allowed himself the smallest flicker of pride as he watched Nazariy’s reaction. “This,” he said quietly, adjusting his coat, “is where real work happens.”

They crossed through the main entrance. Replica technologies stood in illuminated cases like relics of a benevolent future: bionic limbs with synth-skin seamless as flesh, retinal implants displayed in rotating holographic projection, testimonials glowing in soft blue script overhead. The AI assist chimed gently as they stepped inside. “Welcome to Paragon Group. How may I assist you today?”

Kaelan ignored it. He didn’t need assistance. He belonged here, and a glance at the scanner’s direction should flag the system of his arrival within seconds. The human receptionist recognized him immediately however. Clearance codes transferred with a subtle flick of his wrist against the security panel, and the elevators opened without delay. Nazariy’s reflection multiplied in the mirrored walls as they ascended. Like the various high clearance divisions, the Genome Division required deeper clearance. So did Ascendant, and Kaelan had both.

Before anything else, he routed himself through Medical. Full panel bloodwork. Bone marrow scan. Rapid cytogenetic screening. Gamma burden quantification. Nanoscopic sweep for foreign bioactivity. He submitted to it all with clipped impatience, standing beneath white light while machines hummed around him. Hours later, preliminary results populated his tablet, but he only gave it a cursory scan before taking a deeper dive into the results once he could be alone. It was enough to feel clean, for now.

Nazariy, meanwhile, drew attention. Not alarm, but curiosity. He’d already informed Ephraim and the team of Nazariy’s imminent arrival as a research subject. Given that he had no birth certificate or any legal existence at all, Paragon had special ways to hand wave the paperwork.

“He’s with me,” Kaelan said simply whenever he was asked. That was enough for the underlings.

Temporary residential quarters were arranged in one of Paragon’s internal housing levels similar to the controlled accommodations used for certain research participants. It was comfortable, but most important, it was  ontained.

The room had reinforced walls and discreet monitoring systems embedded behind panels as well as adjustable climate control, private washroom, and fresh clothing laid out. Real food would be delivered on a schedule.
Not a cell, but not entirely freedom either.

Kaelan watched Nazariy take in the space. The clean lines. The absence of rot. The quiet hum of climate filtration.

“You’ll be comfortable here,” Kaelan assured him. “Safer than the Zone. No Shaykra. I promise.”

Testing protocols were already drafting themselves in his mind. Controlled exposure trials. Dermal response mapping. Electromagnetic field analysis during spore activation. Genetic sequencing. Whole genome comparison against baseline human markers. Epigenetic irregularities. Possible chimerism screening. Proteomic profiling.

And the spores.

He had secured many viable samples from the concrete smear. Stored in negative-pressure containment in Genome Division.

If the black responded to Nazariy biologically, pheromonally, thermally, or electromagnetically, Paragon would find the mechanism. And if it was something more…

His thoughts flickered briefly toward Ascendant Division. Toward the gap between channelers and non-channelers. Toward Project Visakanya. Toward severance.

What if this wasn’t fungus? What if it was a superintelligence interface? Kaelan clasped his hands behind his back, watching Nazariy from across the room.

“You’ll rest tonight,” he said, voice measured. “Tomorrow we begin.”

He felt that thrill from the concrete slab in Chernobyl again. The moment the black recoiled from him but embraced Nazariy. This wasn’t just discovery. It was leverage. And for the first time since Shayka stripped him to shivering bone, Kaelan felt something stronger than fear.

Control.

Until then, he had to meet personally with Ephraim and explain everything man to man.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1970.html Thu, 26 Feb 2026 01:37:32 +0000 Penny]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1970.html
I lost my mom in the storm. She told me about my dad and was setting a meeting with him soon, but didn’t make it in time. I don’t know his name or anything about him. He might be my only family. I don’t know where to look at all. How do I find him?]]>
I lost my mom in the storm. She told me about my dad and was setting a meeting with him soon, but didn’t make it in time. I don’t know his name or anything about him. He might be my only family. I don’t know where to look at all. How do I find him?]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1968.html Sun, 22 Feb 2026 12:41:48 +0000 Ghost]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1968.html
Right now, the room was quiet. Adam didn't want to listen to anything as he field stripped his pistol.  He had no ammunition and it hadn't been fired, so everything should be fine, but the process filled the time. He had asked Victor to make sure. Besides the sensors in the grip and sights, it was mostly the same as a normal one - at least in the sense that he could disassemble it as any other firearm. The process wasn't necessary today. The gun was immaculate, but it was a time. 

The lack of sound wasn't unusual. Adam often worked in silence unless he was talking with Eva or L0-9. He wondered how L0-9's friend was handling this storm. Briefly he hoped she was alright. Adam would ask the next time the LUMA spoke with him. Sometimes Adam listened to music while he worked, but it wasn't all the time. He had learned most of Cadence's music library by now. The biggest change in his environment was the light. Adam was no longer sitting in darkness as much. Since he had been tested, he felt better about what he was, even if what he could do was scary.

Adam reassembled his pistol and admired it once more. It was an elegant weapon. He hoped that sometime after the storm ended, he could do some live fire practice. The weapon reassembled, Adam put it back in its case and slid it under his bed. He should see about getting a safe to store it in after things calmed down a bit. Adam took a shower and got dressed. There wasn't much more he could really do today. Like so many things in the army, he had a lot of down time when nothing specific had to be done. He grabbed a random book and began to read. Just another thing to fill the time.]]>
Right now, the room was quiet. Adam didn't want to listen to anything as he field stripped his pistol.  He had no ammunition and it hadn't been fired, so everything should be fine, but the process filled the time. He had asked Victor to make sure. Besides the sensors in the grip and sights, it was mostly the same as a normal one - at least in the sense that he could disassemble it as any other firearm. The process wasn't necessary today. The gun was immaculate, but it was a time. 

The lack of sound wasn't unusual. Adam often worked in silence unless he was talking with Eva or L0-9. He wondered how L0-9's friend was handling this storm. Briefly he hoped she was alright. Adam would ask the next time the LUMA spoke with him. Sometimes Adam listened to music while he worked, but it wasn't all the time. He had learned most of Cadence's music library by now. The biggest change in his environment was the light. Adam was no longer sitting in darkness as much. Since he had been tested, he felt better about what he was, even if what he could do was scary.

Adam reassembled his pistol and admired it once more. It was an elegant weapon. He hoped that sometime after the storm ended, he could do some live fire practice. The weapon reassembled, Adam put it back in its case and slid it under his bed. He should see about getting a safe to store it in after things calmed down a bit. Adam took a shower and got dressed. There wasn't much more he could really do today. Like so many things in the army, he had a lot of down time when nothing specific had to be done. He grabbed a random book and began to read. Just another thing to fill the time.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1967.html Sat, 21 Feb 2026 19:29:08 +0000 Flora]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1967.html Siblings: Lada (19) and Nikon (17),
Half brother: Rafael Janssen (26) -- unknown

Age: 21 (2047) -- Birthdate: Aug 8th

Description: 5'5"(1.651m) weighing approximately 140lbs(63.5kg) with natural blond hair

Reborn God: Ninkasi was the Mesopotamian goddess of beer and brewing

Channeler: Learner

Occupation: Student at Moscow University -- Fashion Journalism

Psychological: A social butterfly, center of attention and life of the party. She isn't a socialite but wants to be and will do anything in her power to get there. As long as you aren't taking her down she's warm and generous  but get in the way of her fun and she goes the total opposite direction.  She's self-centered and lazy unless it's about getting what she wants to have a good time/fun.  Then she'll do anything.  Her tastes are expensive -- well beyond what she can afford.  She likes bright colors and her clothes always stand out in a crowd.  She does not like to be ignored.

---

Before she was born her mother and father had some problems -- she'd only heard rumors of it, but Flora had heard them.  Dad had gotten in trouble, accused of murder of a woman and he was acquitted. He didn't do it.  But he did have an affair with the woman. Mom had forgiven him. It was all good. Their life was good.

But her dad didn't have a completely good life.  People still remembered the trial. He kept jobs like he drank -- on and off. But he was faithful. And he was a good father -- he wasn't abusive at all. He did get angry. But he didn't hurt anyone -- Flora didn't believe he could kill that woman and people gave him a hard shake -- he had been not guilty but it didn't change perceptions.

Erast Aksakova ran his own construction business.  Sometimes times were good -- others not so good.  Bella was a waitress at a local coffee shop, Artskaf. Bella flit between jobs now that the kids were all grown -- she had no real talents.

When the carnival stopped in Moscow and grew roots it was a haunt she frequented often. She liked the bright colors and the fanciful shows.  She found kinship in their antics, she liked to sneak into the private areas after hours that's where the real parties were. She met Lalitha there.  They were fast friends giggling and being part of the carnival -- the party was a party of her soul. It fueled her.

Her family didn't have money but they got by. Flora watched the upper echelon with envy.  And she wanted that.

She got a flare for stealing high-end scarves and jewelry when she was young. She got caught a few times, but with enough crying and manipulation she didn't get charged. Apologize and returning the items fixed those few times.

And she made sure her mom and dad didn't know about them.  Though she suspected they knew.  Sometimes her lies weren't believed -- but she even got good at those.

Flora frequented the places she shouldn't. Sneaking in when she couldn't legally get in, or finding someone other way inside. Her "license" had been wrong since she learned how to find someone to change it for her. She could get into just about any place but she was of age for everything now everywhere.

She shouldn't have been there when she found the coin. She had kept it secret for months before she pulled it out again and found the source.  She'd found him one rainy night.  He helped her. She worshiped him for it. He gave her the life she wanted. All she had to do was sell for him. And it wasn't hard. It was easy really. She just had to be herself.

Zeke was a good boss and she got to hang out at Zaranitsa’s Dream just inside the Nebesa’s Gate casino. The club was dreamy and that's where she sold, but she could make a sell just about anywhere in the casino, it all allowed her to mingle in circles she didn't belong -- her parents didn't know. She kept a secret stash of high end stolen clothes in a storage unit closer to the school.]]> Siblings: Lada (19) and Nikon (17),
Half brother: Rafael Janssen (26) -- unknown

Age: 21 (2047) -- Birthdate: Aug 8th

Description: 5'5"(1.651m) weighing approximately 140lbs(63.5kg) with natural blond hair

Reborn God: Ninkasi was the Mesopotamian goddess of beer and brewing

Channeler: Learner

Occupation: Student at Moscow University -- Fashion Journalism

Psychological: A social butterfly, center of attention and life of the party. She isn't a socialite but wants to be and will do anything in her power to get there. As long as you aren't taking her down she's warm and generous  but get in the way of her fun and she goes the total opposite direction.  She's self-centered and lazy unless it's about getting what she wants to have a good time/fun.  Then she'll do anything.  Her tastes are expensive -- well beyond what she can afford.  She likes bright colors and her clothes always stand out in a crowd.  She does not like to be ignored.

---

Before she was born her mother and father had some problems -- she'd only heard rumors of it, but Flora had heard them.  Dad had gotten in trouble, accused of murder of a woman and he was acquitted. He didn't do it.  But he did have an affair with the woman. Mom had forgiven him. It was all good. Their life was good.

But her dad didn't have a completely good life.  People still remembered the trial. He kept jobs like he drank -- on and off. But he was faithful. And he was a good father -- he wasn't abusive at all. He did get angry. But he didn't hurt anyone -- Flora didn't believe he could kill that woman and people gave him a hard shake -- he had been not guilty but it didn't change perceptions.

Erast Aksakova ran his own construction business.  Sometimes times were good -- others not so good.  Bella was a waitress at a local coffee shop, Artskaf. Bella flit between jobs now that the kids were all grown -- she had no real talents.

When the carnival stopped in Moscow and grew roots it was a haunt she frequented often. She liked the bright colors and the fanciful shows.  She found kinship in their antics, she liked to sneak into the private areas after hours that's where the real parties were. She met Lalitha there.  They were fast friends giggling and being part of the carnival -- the party was a party of her soul. It fueled her.

Her family didn't have money but they got by. Flora watched the upper echelon with envy.  And she wanted that.

She got a flare for stealing high-end scarves and jewelry when she was young. She got caught a few times, but with enough crying and manipulation she didn't get charged. Apologize and returning the items fixed those few times.

And she made sure her mom and dad didn't know about them.  Though she suspected they knew.  Sometimes her lies weren't believed -- but she even got good at those.

Flora frequented the places she shouldn't. Sneaking in when she couldn't legally get in, or finding someone other way inside. Her "license" had been wrong since she learned how to find someone to change it for her. She could get into just about any place but she was of age for everything now everywhere.

She shouldn't have been there when she found the coin. She had kept it secret for months before she pulled it out again and found the source.  She'd found him one rainy night.  He helped her. She worshiped him for it. He gave her the life she wanted. All she had to do was sell for him. And it wasn't hard. It was easy really. She just had to be herself.

Zeke was a good boss and she got to hang out at Zaranitsa’s Dream just inside the Nebesa’s Gate casino. The club was dreamy and that's where she sold, but she could make a sell just about anywhere in the casino, it all allowed her to mingle in circles she didn't belong -- her parents didn't know. She kept a secret stash of high end stolen clothes in a storage unit closer to the school.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1966.html Tue, 17 Feb 2026 01:58:33 +0000 Ghost]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1966.html
Today was the day. Victor wanted to see how well the implants were taking and wanted an idea of Adam’s limits. Adam had slowly reacclimated himself to exercise. Within days of beginning to exercise again, he was at the numbers he had been doing before the implants had been installed. At the same time, he wasn’t working as hard to do it. It was kind of amazing how well they were working. This had been reported to Victor, but he wanted to see it and to push it. 

Adam arrived in the gym section of the building at the appropriate time. Mr. Haart had told him he intended to be there, so Adam wasn’t surprised to see the Paragon CEO there with Victor. ”Good Morning, Mr. Haart, Victor,” he said, his greeting more cordial and respectful to Mr. Haart. If Victor noticed, he didn’t say anything, but that was normal. 

Victor approached him. ”Alright - we’re going to do a series of tests today. Some cardio and resistance work to see how well the implants have taken. You’ve reported back to me, positive results. We’re going to try to push those limits today. When it’s too much, let me know so we can have an understanding of your limits. Do you understand?”

The entire set of instructions was spoken without any inflection. That was also typical. ”Yes,” he responded matter of factly. ”I did a warm-up, so I’m ready to start when you are.”

Victor actually showed he was pleased at that moment. It was a strange thing to see. ”Perfect. Would you like to start with cardio or resistance?”

Adam elected to do weights first - simply because he doubted Mr. Haart would enjoy watching him run so much. He didn’t know how long Mr. Haart planned on staying. He didn’t expect him to stay long. He went through his lifting routine, starting first with his normal as a benchmark. It seemed incredibly easy. Then they added more - and more - and more. When he had doubled his normal weight he began to feel more resistance. He was able to dead lift triple his body weight, and with one hand he was able to lift at two and a half times his body weight. Victor was talking excitedly about it to Mr. Haart, showing him the numbers from before he had received the implants. So far - everything was exceeding expectations.]]>
Today was the day. Victor wanted to see how well the implants were taking and wanted an idea of Adam’s limits. Adam had slowly reacclimated himself to exercise. Within days of beginning to exercise again, he was at the numbers he had been doing before the implants had been installed. At the same time, he wasn’t working as hard to do it. It was kind of amazing how well they were working. This had been reported to Victor, but he wanted to see it and to push it. 

Adam arrived in the gym section of the building at the appropriate time. Mr. Haart had told him he intended to be there, so Adam wasn’t surprised to see the Paragon CEO there with Victor. ”Good Morning, Mr. Haart, Victor,” he said, his greeting more cordial and respectful to Mr. Haart. If Victor noticed, he didn’t say anything, but that was normal. 

Victor approached him. ”Alright - we’re going to do a series of tests today. Some cardio and resistance work to see how well the implants have taken. You’ve reported back to me, positive results. We’re going to try to push those limits today. When it’s too much, let me know so we can have an understanding of your limits. Do you understand?”

The entire set of instructions was spoken without any inflection. That was also typical. ”Yes,” he responded matter of factly. ”I did a warm-up, so I’m ready to start when you are.”

Victor actually showed he was pleased at that moment. It was a strange thing to see. ”Perfect. Would you like to start with cardio or resistance?”

Adam elected to do weights first - simply because he doubted Mr. Haart would enjoy watching him run so much. He didn’t know how long Mr. Haart planned on staying. He didn’t expect him to stay long. He went through his lifting routine, starting first with his normal as a benchmark. It seemed incredibly easy. Then they added more - and more - and more. When he had doubled his normal weight he began to feel more resistance. He was able to dead lift triple his body weight, and with one hand he was able to lift at two and a half times his body weight. Victor was talking excitedly about it to Mr. Haart, showing him the numbers from before he had received the implants. So far - everything was exceeding expectations.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1965.html Wed, 11 Feb 2026 01:29:41 +0000 Ezvin Marveet]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1965.html
Not the sharp, restless kind of good that came from chasing something new, but the smooth, settled confidence of a man exactly where he wanted to be. His coat was warm, scarf loose, hair behaving for once. He checked his reflection briefly in the dark glass of a ticket booth and allowed himself a small, approving nod. Nights like this suited him.

The carnival sprawled away from the embankment like a fever dream. Strings of lights zigzagged overhead. The tents leaned into one another as if sharing secrets. A tarot reader smoked beneath a velvet awning, cards laid out like an accusation.

Further down, a sign promised TRUE GHOSTS, REAL VOICES, and Ezvin made a mental note to check about that later. Across the way, a row of game stalls glowed with impossible optimism, stuffed animals hanging in neat rows like colorful trophies waiting to be claimed.

He slipped his wallet from his pocket, checked the time, and smiled.

He leaned back against the railing and watched people pass: lovers wrapped together, strangers brushing hands, performers in half-costumes laughing too loudly. Ezvin’s thoughts flicked, briefly, to how Cadence had looked earlier that day, all curious and bright, just on the edge of something new. He liked that edge. He liked being there when people stepped over it. He also liked that she’d said yes so easily.]]>
Not the sharp, restless kind of good that came from chasing something new, but the smooth, settled confidence of a man exactly where he wanted to be. His coat was warm, scarf loose, hair behaving for once. He checked his reflection briefly in the dark glass of a ticket booth and allowed himself a small, approving nod. Nights like this suited him.

The carnival sprawled away from the embankment like a fever dream. Strings of lights zigzagged overhead. The tents leaned into one another as if sharing secrets. A tarot reader smoked beneath a velvet awning, cards laid out like an accusation.

Further down, a sign promised TRUE GHOSTS, REAL VOICES, and Ezvin made a mental note to check about that later. Across the way, a row of game stalls glowed with impossible optimism, stuffed animals hanging in neat rows like colorful trophies waiting to be claimed.

He slipped his wallet from his pocket, checked the time, and smiled.

He leaned back against the railing and watched people pass: lovers wrapped together, strangers brushing hands, performers in half-costumes laughing too loudly. Ezvin’s thoughts flicked, briefly, to how Cadence had looked earlier that day, all curious and bright, just on the edge of something new. He liked that edge. He liked being there when people stepped over it. He also liked that she’d said yes so easily.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1964.html Tue, 10 Feb 2026 22:47:49 +0000 Colette Moreau]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1964.html
It was only a block from the Radiance Hotel, which served coffee perfectly well, but Colette had still slipped through the lobby early, coat buttoned tight against the winter morning. She needed the feeling of being just another woman at a small table, not watched like a bird in a cage at Radiance.

She had just started composing a message to her mother when her wallet chimed.

It was Evelyn. Colette smiled before she even opened it.

“Darling,” Colette said as the call connected. “It’s wonderful to hear your voice.”

“Colette,” Evelyn replied, genuinely pleased. “You’re up early.”

Evelyn always sounded warm and effortless, as if intimacy was her native language. It gave the impression that they’d been friends for decades, even though their acquaintance was far more recent.

Colette glanced around the café, then back at the screen. “Oh it’s nothing. I’ve been a bit restless lately” Colette said lightly. “And besides, I’m happy to have caught you. How are you holding up? My mother has been worried. I was just about to send her a message.”

Evelyn’s voice softened. “Things have been challenging, but we are going to come through. We have to be patience But what about you? Are you still at the Radiance?”

“For now,” Colette said. “I suspect that won’t last.”

“Awe,” Evelyn sounded sympathetic. “Is everything okay?”

Colette looked away briefly, ready to change the topic. The truth was, she wasn’t sure what was wrong nor why she was so uncomfortable at the hotel.

“It’s a lovely hotel.” She said.

Evelyn’s eyes sharpened just a touch, the way they always did when conversation edged toward substance. “Have you had an opportunity,” Evelyn asked carefully, “to speak with the Ascendancy yet?”

Colette took a sip of her latte, buying herself a moment. “Not formally. We’ve met socially. He was quite cordial.” She chose the word with care. “And I’ve been invited to see him. An appointment is pending.”

Evelyn’s expression suggested both interest and restraint. “That’s quite something, even so.”

“I’m under no illusions,” Colette said. “An invitation is not influence. It’s simply a door left ajar.”

“But one worth stepping through,” Evelyn said. Then, after a few moments she added, “In the meantime, I wondered if you might be open to another introduction.”

Colette’s brow lifted slightly. “Oh?”

“A woman I think you’d find very cordial,” Evelyn continued. “It’s Natalie Northbrook. She’s been building something very practical. Something protective. A place for women like us to work, train, and exist without having to ask permission or apologize for the space we take.”

Colette leaned back in her chair, interest sharpening into focus. “That does sound intriguing.”

“I thought it might,” Evelyn said, smiling. “I believe the two of you could be… very complementary.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “I think I’d like to meet her.”

Evelyn’s smile widened with satisfaction. “Wonderful. I’ll make the arrangements.”]]>
It was only a block from the Radiance Hotel, which served coffee perfectly well, but Colette had still slipped through the lobby early, coat buttoned tight against the winter morning. She needed the feeling of being just another woman at a small table, not watched like a bird in a cage at Radiance.

She had just started composing a message to her mother when her wallet chimed.

It was Evelyn. Colette smiled before she even opened it.

“Darling,” Colette said as the call connected. “It’s wonderful to hear your voice.”

“Colette,” Evelyn replied, genuinely pleased. “You’re up early.”

Evelyn always sounded warm and effortless, as if intimacy was her native language. It gave the impression that they’d been friends for decades, even though their acquaintance was far more recent.

Colette glanced around the café, then back at the screen. “Oh it’s nothing. I’ve been a bit restless lately” Colette said lightly. “And besides, I’m happy to have caught you. How are you holding up? My mother has been worried. I was just about to send her a message.”

Evelyn’s voice softened. “Things have been challenging, but we are going to come through. We have to be patience But what about you? Are you still at the Radiance?”

“For now,” Colette said. “I suspect that won’t last.”

“Awe,” Evelyn sounded sympathetic. “Is everything okay?”

Colette looked away briefly, ready to change the topic. The truth was, she wasn’t sure what was wrong nor why she was so uncomfortable at the hotel.

“It’s a lovely hotel.” She said.

Evelyn’s eyes sharpened just a touch, the way they always did when conversation edged toward substance. “Have you had an opportunity,” Evelyn asked carefully, “to speak with the Ascendancy yet?”

Colette took a sip of her latte, buying herself a moment. “Not formally. We’ve met socially. He was quite cordial.” She chose the word with care. “And I’ve been invited to see him. An appointment is pending.”

Evelyn’s expression suggested both interest and restraint. “That’s quite something, even so.”

“I’m under no illusions,” Colette said. “An invitation is not influence. It’s simply a door left ajar.”

“But one worth stepping through,” Evelyn said. Then, after a few moments she added, “In the meantime, I wondered if you might be open to another introduction.”

Colette’s brow lifted slightly. “Oh?”

“A woman I think you’d find very cordial,” Evelyn continued. “It’s Natalie Northbrook. She’s been building something very practical. Something protective. A place for women like us to work, train, and exist without having to ask permission or apologize for the space we take.”

Colette leaned back in her chair, interest sharpening into focus. “That does sound intriguing.”

“I thought it might,” Evelyn said, smiling. “I believe the two of you could be… very complementary.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “I think I’d like to meet her.”

Evelyn’s smile widened with satisfaction. “Wonderful. I’ll make the arrangements.”]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1963.html Mon, 09 Feb 2026 01:12:58 +0000 Karim al’Shaidis]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1963.html More details about bio are on the wiki

Karim Al’Shaidis was born in 2018, in Tehran, into a secular, cosmopolitan family for whom preparedness was a matter of routine rather than ideology. His father worked as a civil infrastructure engineer, specializing in seismic resilience and post-event structural assessment. His mother was a public health administrator, coordinating emergency medical logistics during regional crises. Dinner table conversations were rarely dramatic, but they were practical: load limits, evacuation timing, supply bottlenecks, what failed and why.

His early childhood unfolded during a decade in which earthquakes and aftershocks were no longer singular events but recurring disruptions. His parents taught him to keep his shoes by the door and his documents in order. Not out of fear, but practicality. Order was not a philosophy. It was how people slept through the night. Meanwhile, schools closed, reopened, and adapted. Buildings were rebuilt, then reinforced again. Karim learned early that safety was not assumed. It was maintained.

Quiet and observant by nature, Karim was socially at ease but disinclined toward attention. He listened more than he spoke, absorbed systems before questioning them, and showed a natural patience for slow, methodical work. When others reacted to instability with urgency or fear, Karim responded by narrowing his focus and doing what needed to be done next.

He completed formal education in civil and disaster systems engineering, but it was never the academic side that defined him. He gravitated quickly toward field deployment, working with international stabilization and humanitarian coordination groups operating in regions of prolonged unrest across sub-Saharan and coastal East Africa. His work placed him at the intersection of emergency response, infrastructure stabilization, and civilian coordination.

By his early twenties, Karim was already trusted with on-site authority during volatile operations. He understood how systems broke under stress, but more importantly, how people did. He learned that most disasters were survivable until poor decisions compounded them. That understanding, more than ambition or ideology, kept him in the field long after others rotated out.

It was during one of these deployments, already fully operational and experienced, that he first manifested the ability to channel.

Karim first sparked his ability to channel at age 22. The manifestation was powerful and disorienting, emerging during a protective act in the field that prevented large-scale loss of life. Untrained and wary of the power, he was careful with restraint. He developed a self-imposed block, requiring him to physically endure a sense of weight such as holding something heavy, pressing against an immovable surface, or carrying a heavy load. It was used sparingly, only when it served others, and never for personal gain.

For several years, Karim operated quietly, his anomalous actions folded into the chaos of disaster zones. Eventually, the scale and consistency of his interventions drew the attention of CCD intelligence. He was formally recruited through Michael Vellas, but it was the Ascendancy that secured his commitment, framing the Nine Rods of Dominion as guardians of global stability rather than instruments of domination.

Within the Nine Rods of Dominion, Karim quickly distinguished himself as one of the strongest channelers, surpassed only by Im Seung Jun and Michael Vellas. Yet it was not strength alone that elevated him. He absorbed responsibility when operations went wrong, mediated disputes without theatrics, and made difficult decisions without needing recognition. Michael relied on him to stabilize volatile situations. Others followed because he was fair, controlled, and unwavering under pressure. Despite the lack of formal hierarchy among the eight, Karim became their de facto leader.

Personality

Karim is lawful in the truest sense of the word. He believes conduct and morality exist to protect people, not to excuse harm. Collateral damage justified as “necessary” unsettles him deeply. When such harm occurs, he does not openly rebel or grandstand. He continues to function with precision and professionalism, but he remembers. Trust, once withdrawn, is not often restored.

His driving motivation is not power or legacy, but proof. Proof that the world is actually becoming safer. Proof that restraint, accountability, and protection matter. Proof that the structures he serves reduce harm rather than merely rationalize it.

Karim does not seek command. He does not posture. He stands where systems fail and holds them together long enough for others to survive.

Appearance

Karim stands at 6’1″, his build is lean and athletic in a way that suggests long hours of physical work rather than deliberate bodybuilding. He carries himself with an easy, grounded posture, shoulders relaxed but ready, as if balance and stability are habits he never quite sets aside. His features are sharp but calm: dark, expressive eyes set beneath strong brows, a straight nose, and a clean-shaven jaw that gives him an open, direct look. His hair is dark and worn short, usually slightly unruly, softening an otherwise serious presence. There is nothing flashy about his appearance, yet it draws attention all the same. He looks like someone accustomed to responsibility, fit from use rather than vanity, with a quiet intensity that reads as reliability long before it reads as power.]]> More details about bio are on the wiki

Karim Al’Shaidis was born in 2018, in Tehran, into a secular, cosmopolitan family for whom preparedness was a matter of routine rather than ideology. His father worked as a civil infrastructure engineer, specializing in seismic resilience and post-event structural assessment. His mother was a public health administrator, coordinating emergency medical logistics during regional crises. Dinner table conversations were rarely dramatic, but they were practical: load limits, evacuation timing, supply bottlenecks, what failed and why.

His early childhood unfolded during a decade in which earthquakes and aftershocks were no longer singular events but recurring disruptions. His parents taught him to keep his shoes by the door and his documents in order. Not out of fear, but practicality. Order was not a philosophy. It was how people slept through the night. Meanwhile, schools closed, reopened, and adapted. Buildings were rebuilt, then reinforced again. Karim learned early that safety was not assumed. It was maintained.

Quiet and observant by nature, Karim was socially at ease but disinclined toward attention. He listened more than he spoke, absorbed systems before questioning them, and showed a natural patience for slow, methodical work. When others reacted to instability with urgency or fear, Karim responded by narrowing his focus and doing what needed to be done next.

He completed formal education in civil and disaster systems engineering, but it was never the academic side that defined him. He gravitated quickly toward field deployment, working with international stabilization and humanitarian coordination groups operating in regions of prolonged unrest across sub-Saharan and coastal East Africa. His work placed him at the intersection of emergency response, infrastructure stabilization, and civilian coordination.

By his early twenties, Karim was already trusted with on-site authority during volatile operations. He understood how systems broke under stress, but more importantly, how people did. He learned that most disasters were survivable until poor decisions compounded them. That understanding, more than ambition or ideology, kept him in the field long after others rotated out.

It was during one of these deployments, already fully operational and experienced, that he first manifested the ability to channel.

Karim first sparked his ability to channel at age 22. The manifestation was powerful and disorienting, emerging during a protective act in the field that prevented large-scale loss of life. Untrained and wary of the power, he was careful with restraint. He developed a self-imposed block, requiring him to physically endure a sense of weight such as holding something heavy, pressing against an immovable surface, or carrying a heavy load. It was used sparingly, only when it served others, and never for personal gain.

For several years, Karim operated quietly, his anomalous actions folded into the chaos of disaster zones. Eventually, the scale and consistency of his interventions drew the attention of CCD intelligence. He was formally recruited through Michael Vellas, but it was the Ascendancy that secured his commitment, framing the Nine Rods of Dominion as guardians of global stability rather than instruments of domination.

Within the Nine Rods of Dominion, Karim quickly distinguished himself as one of the strongest channelers, surpassed only by Im Seung Jun and Michael Vellas. Yet it was not strength alone that elevated him. He absorbed responsibility when operations went wrong, mediated disputes without theatrics, and made difficult decisions without needing recognition. Michael relied on him to stabilize volatile situations. Others followed because he was fair, controlled, and unwavering under pressure. Despite the lack of formal hierarchy among the eight, Karim became their de facto leader.

Personality

Karim is lawful in the truest sense of the word. He believes conduct and morality exist to protect people, not to excuse harm. Collateral damage justified as “necessary” unsettles him deeply. When such harm occurs, he does not openly rebel or grandstand. He continues to function with precision and professionalism, but he remembers. Trust, once withdrawn, is not often restored.

His driving motivation is not power or legacy, but proof. Proof that the world is actually becoming safer. Proof that restraint, accountability, and protection matter. Proof that the structures he serves reduce harm rather than merely rationalize it.

Karim does not seek command. He does not posture. He stands where systems fail and holds them together long enough for others to survive.

Appearance

Karim stands at 6’1″, his build is lean and athletic in a way that suggests long hours of physical work rather than deliberate bodybuilding. He carries himself with an easy, grounded posture, shoulders relaxed but ready, as if balance and stability are habits he never quite sets aside. His features are sharp but calm: dark, expressive eyes set beneath strong brows, a straight nose, and a clean-shaven jaw that gives him an open, direct look. His hair is dark and worn short, usually slightly unruly, softening an otherwise serious presence. There is nothing flashy about his appearance, yet it draws attention all the same. He looks like someone accustomed to responsibility, fit from use rather than vanity, with a quiet intensity that reads as reliability long before it reads as power.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1962.html Sat, 07 Feb 2026 12:49:31 +0000 Nox]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1962.html
I'm just curious.

I'm considering adding another life to Nox's past lives.  One in the 4th age that is a spun out Hero of the Horn.  (Though I don't know if it's necessary as Geb might possibly qualify as a hero for the actual things he did before the god wars.)  Which I don't actually know if he participated on what side lol.]]>
I'm just curious.

I'm considering adding another life to Nox's past lives.  One in the 4th age that is a spun out Hero of the Horn.  (Though I don't know if it's necessary as Geb might possibly qualify as a hero for the actual things he did before the god wars.)  Which I don't actually know if he participated on what side lol.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1961.html Thu, 05 Feb 2026 17:23:32 +0000 Marisol]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1961.html ”Detective Guerro,” Captain Dolohov’s voice grabbed Marisol’s attention. She entered his office as he gestured for her to do so. ”Get the files together for the case you’ve been working on. The dead man - pale with the burnt eyes. Domovoi is taking it over.”

Marisol sighed in frustration. ”Sir, I’ve been..”

The Captain raised his hand to silence her. ”I know, detective, but you know the regulations. Someone from Domovoi will be here to get the file and evidence. And get ready for a long night. Weather isn’t letting up, we might be stuck here for awhile.”

Marisol was dismissed and she left feeling the frustration deep in her bones. It was a frustration all detectives had at one point or another. You do the work and as things are coming together and then another unit steps in and says they’re taking over. She had worked hard on this case. It had started with a welfare check call. Someone called because their friend had been acting strange - reporting increasing paranoia that he was being stalked. When the friend had lost contact, he’d called for a welfare check. The fire department showed up and had found a corpse. 

Marisol had come to the scene. The body had been pale. Almost like it had been drained of blood. The eyes were burnt, but it looked like it had come from the inside. There were other burn marks too, incompatible with the eye burns. There were burn marks around the room in the apartment as well as water stains. Papers were swept around like a wind had blown through it. The smoke detector hadn’t gone off - it had appeared damaged. Marisol had found journals there. The victim had written them. They gave credence to the witness’s story. There were repeated entries that stated the victim had multiple times seen something out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked there was nothing there. 

Marisol’s reports had been meticulous. Other detectives gave her a hard time for it sometimes, but DAs loved it. Her cases never got thrown out of court for something as mundane as the evidence was mislabeled. She documented everything: pictures, witness statements, the journals, and the toxicology and coroner’s reports. Some had thought maybe drugs - but the toxicology report was clean. The coroner had been stumped as well, labeling the cause of death as “inconclusive”. Everything was there. The more she dug into the case, the more she felt that the victim hadn’t been paranoid. Something had been following him. Her report didn’t state that yet. It was a gut feeling at this point. 

Marisol took the paperwork to the evidence lock up to collect it for the Domovoi people. She’d get everything together for them and have it in order. Some cops didn’t organize it. A small little jab that they were pissed that their case was being taken. Marisol was a team player, and even if she was frustrated, she wasn’t angry. She understood it. She had been a minute away from calling them herself. But even if she wasn’t angry, she couldn’t keep the frustration out of her posture as unbuttoned her suit coat to take a seat and begin to make sure she had everything in order. [/b]]]> ”Detective Guerro,” Captain Dolohov’s voice grabbed Marisol’s attention. She entered his office as he gestured for her to do so. ”Get the files together for the case you’ve been working on. The dead man - pale with the burnt eyes. Domovoi is taking it over.”

Marisol sighed in frustration. ”Sir, I’ve been..”

The Captain raised his hand to silence her. ”I know, detective, but you know the regulations. Someone from Domovoi will be here to get the file and evidence. And get ready for a long night. Weather isn’t letting up, we might be stuck here for awhile.”

Marisol was dismissed and she left feeling the frustration deep in her bones. It was a frustration all detectives had at one point or another. You do the work and as things are coming together and then another unit steps in and says they’re taking over. She had worked hard on this case. It had started with a welfare check call. Someone called because their friend had been acting strange - reporting increasing paranoia that he was being stalked. When the friend had lost contact, he’d called for a welfare check. The fire department showed up and had found a corpse. 

Marisol had come to the scene. The body had been pale. Almost like it had been drained of blood. The eyes were burnt, but it looked like it had come from the inside. There were other burn marks too, incompatible with the eye burns. There were burn marks around the room in the apartment as well as water stains. Papers were swept around like a wind had blown through it. The smoke detector hadn’t gone off - it had appeared damaged. Marisol had found journals there. The victim had written them. They gave credence to the witness’s story. There were repeated entries that stated the victim had multiple times seen something out of the corner of his eye, but when he looked there was nothing there. 

Marisol’s reports had been meticulous. Other detectives gave her a hard time for it sometimes, but DAs loved it. Her cases never got thrown out of court for something as mundane as the evidence was mislabeled. She documented everything: pictures, witness statements, the journals, and the toxicology and coroner’s reports. Some had thought maybe drugs - but the toxicology report was clean. The coroner had been stumped as well, labeling the cause of death as “inconclusive”. Everything was there. The more she dug into the case, the more she felt that the victim hadn’t been paranoid. Something had been following him. Her report didn’t state that yet. It was a gut feeling at this point. 

Marisol took the paperwork to the evidence lock up to collect it for the Domovoi people. She’d get everything together for them and have it in order. Some cops didn’t organize it. A small little jab that they were pissed that their case was being taken. Marisol was a team player, and even if she was frustrated, she wasn’t angry. She understood it. She had been a minute away from calling them herself. But even if she wasn’t angry, she couldn’t keep the frustration out of her posture as unbuttoned her suit coat to take a seat and begin to make sure she had everything in order. [/b]]]>