<![CDATA[The First Age - All Forums]]>

<![CDATA[The First Age - All Forums]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/ Tue, 10 Nov 2026 20:12:10 +0000 MyBB <![CDATA[Winter's Bite]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1993.html Tue, 10 Nov 2026 16:35:09 +0000 Noémi Jourdain]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1993.html

Noémi rarely thought to take time off without prompting, but when Alexandrova had gently pointed out she’d been in the office every day over Christmas, she politely took the hint. It was a significant day at the Kremlin, and one that had taken considerable planning, but not a day for which she was needed. She was not sure if there had been a gentle emphasis on that point, or if she was simply sensitive to the idea that she might be considered a distraction. They never crossed those boundaries, she and Nikolai, and Noémi’s dedication to her job was entirely separate from her devotion to the man the consulate served. Still, she felt a little stung, and had been left wondering since if she had inadvertently caused an indiscretion about which Alexandrova had been quietly disproving.

January in Moscow was not the most pleasant; the snows were often deep, the cold apt to bite right through to the bone, but it was at least bright today. After running the usual errands, she spent the morning in the city exploring thrift stores and antique treasure troves. Sometimes she paused to snap pictures as scenery and light caught her eye. She was content to spend the time alone, and since Rafael had stopped returning her messages she had few people she might call on for coffee and company anyway.

Though she tried to stop herself, her eyes caught occasionally on a familiar-seeming passerby, her heart hitching a little with residual worry. She had heard nothing from Dima since his parent's celebration, and had not expected to, not with what she understood must have happened that night at the Vasiliev party. She didn’t truly think he would be so foolish as to defy a warning from the Ascendancy by seeking her out, yet the anxiety rooted unwelcomed anyway. Truthfully it was not Dima who Noémi was worried about. It was Sofia.

Reluctant to go home once she had exhausted her distractions, she took the subway out of the city and spent the journey writing poetry in a journal she always kept in her bag. The walk to the church was only a short one once she exited the station, but when she returned to the world beneath the sky she discovered the weather had begun to turn. Snow fell in thick drifts, and the hanging clouds made it seem hours later than just before midday. Noémi pulled the scarf tighter about her throat, and glanced back down the street, but the indecision was only momentary. She would have to shelter at the church; it was the only sensible option she had.

By the time the building came into view the storm had begun deepening in a way that fluttered her stomach with worry, yet between one step and the next it was like a veil had been drawn. She entered a fragile stillness, the snow no longer heavy but drifting like a dying snowglobe.

Ezekiel stood on the steps, staring upwards, breathing hard. His fists were curled. The colour had drained from his golden skin.

When Noémi looked up to see what he beheld her eyes widened. A battle swirled in the sky, of cloud and shadow and eerie shafts of light, and beyond a savage vortex of white.

“My phone,” he said. It came out a croak. She did not know Ezekiel well, but he had always seemed the indolent sort. Noémi could certainly never have imagined hearing him panicked, but it shook in his tone now and the surprise alone stole her gaze back down. “Take it from my pocket. Call my cousin, tell him to evacuate the carnival. They’re going to be buried.”

Noémi shivered under the weight of ice caked on her shoulders. Confusion pressed her brow into a faint frown, but given decisive direction she didn’t choose to question and instead hurried up the steps. She pulled the stiff gloves from her hands with her teeth. Her fingers were frozen blocks yet she still felt the faint tremor inside him as she pulled free the phone and he uncurled a cold finger from his fist to allow her to unlock it.

He was channeling, she realised then, and that made her frightened too.

“Your cousin?” She was already slipping through the numbers. Her heart was beating hard, but none would ever know it: Noémi was remarkably collected under such pressure as fear. It had saved her more than once.

“Dominik,” he said. Then: “You’re going to have to get them out. The tunnels. They know the way. Hurry, hurry. I can’t hold this.”

The church. He meant the people in the church. She stared at him, aghast with responsibility, but he had not yet broken gaze with the scene above and there was no one else. Authority did not sit an easy mantle upon her. Unless Rafael were inside she knew none of these people, and they had no reason to trust her. Yet she didn’t argue, just pressed the phone to her ear as she ducked inside the threshold. It was only as a voice crackled across the line that she realised what Ezekiel had said.

Buried.

The man who answered asked no questions when she gave him the message, or even asked her to identify who she was. Noémi’s dulcet voice was steady but urgency slipped between the syllables and it seemed to be enough. When he hung up she pushed the phone into her coat pocket without thinking, and moved seamlessly to the next task. The doors were heavy and stiff.

A sea of eyes met her from the cool hallowed space within, and the way their attention moved like a single creature caught in her throat. Noémi had performed under far more exacting circumstances, but this was not a performance, and it had been her body on display then and not her voice. People were huddled under coats and blankets and sleeping bags. Somewhere a child was whimpering and it echoed strangely in the space.

“Take what you can easily carry,” she told them. Her voice lifted and carried effortlessly. It was not a calm she felt, but one she discovered she could impart nonetheless. “Prioritise warmth and food. Help those who need it. Ezekiel says we must make for the shelter of the tunnels, and quickly.”]]> <![CDATA[Next Wed - Server Stuff]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1992.html Tue, 03 Nov 2026 14:11:45 +0000 Nox]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1992.html
But that MAY not happen to that following weekend.

I just wanted to let ya'll know ahead of time.]]>
But that MAY not happen to that following weekend.

I just wanted to let ya'll know ahead of time.]]> <![CDATA[Maeva Finnegren]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1991.html Thu, 29 Oct 2026 21:50:24 +0000 Maeva]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1991.html
Maeva was an IVF baby, born with a significant gap between her and her older siblings; she was one last, late attempt by her parents at securing genetic perfection. Amidst the grandeur of their ancestral estate at Glenshae House she was raised to be a good daughter: courteous, discreet, and above all obedient – all expectations she genuinely tried to meet as a child.

But though Maeva would never have dreamed of challenging her elders outright, curiosity had a way of outlasting even a simple instruction: she could accept it dutifully, without complaint, and still spend the next several hours wondering why it had been given in the first place. She wanted to understand how things worked, why people behaved as they did, and what lay beneath the surface of the world presented to her. Being told that something was private, inappropriate for her to know, or beyond her understanding rarely settled the matter, it just gave the question somewhere to hide.

She never set out to disobey on purpose. She would tell herself that she only wanted to look, that she would ask just one question, and that knowing the answer would help her understand why she had been told to leave the matter alone. She was always good at finding reasons to believe that her intentions made an indiscretion harmless. Sometimes she discovered something useful. And sometimes she found herself in trouble, with no satisfactory explanation for why she had not simply listened in the first place.

Of her brothers, Maeva had little of a relationship with Cillian (who was almost fifteen years her senior) and grew up closest to Leon. She was too young to understand the devastation of his ALS diagnosis, and never knew him any other way. In him she found someone she could ask questions without being made to feel foolish, admit uncertainty without having it turned into a lesson, and share her discoveries without wondering what use someone might make of them. Their closeness was easy in a way that little else in the Finnegren household was. Leon did not need to be her opposite or her accomplice in every indiscretion. He was simply someone who understood her, who could share a silence without demanding that it mean anything, and who made her feel that she was loved for herself rather than for what she might one day contribute to the family.

Theron, Leon's identical twin, occupied a different place in her life. She cared for him deeply, but the two were never as close. Perhaps it was simply a difference in temperament; perhaps it was the way the family increasingly centred its ambitions upon him after tragedy visited their family. As Theron's growing potential became apparent, he was drawn more deeply into the future Ronan and Fionnuala had envisioned for their children, and eventually his path took him away from the life they had shared at Glenshae House. She did not resent him for it, exactly. Their lives simply began to diverge, and whatever affection remained between them was complicated by the knowledge that they had grown up under the same roof without necessarily experiencing the same family.

The discovery of Leon’s aetheric channeling ability brought a new urgency to the family's interest in him. The Finnegrens had spent generations pursuing radical approaches to longevity, cellular regeneration, and the preservation of life, so to them Leon's condition was a tragedy that might now also present an opportunity to advance their work. He was sent to the Von Metternich family in Austria, whose methods of life prolongation were as controversial as they were ambitious. The decision was explained as necessary, perhaps even hopeful. Maeva was told that he would receive care unavailable elsewhere, that the family's connections gave him a chance, and that there was little to be gained by allowing emotion to interfere with a difficult medical decision.

She tried to believe them.

At first, she obeyed the instructions to be patient. She accepted the reassurances, wrote to Leon, and waited for information she was assured would come. When details were withheld, she tried to tell herself that she was being protected from the distress of a situation she could not change. But the explanations never quite aligned. The more she learned about the work being undertaken in Austria, the more questions arose about what was actually happening to her brother. She wanted to know what treatments he was receiving, who had made the decisions, and whether Leon himself had been given a choice. Every answer seemed to close one question while opening another.

Maeva found she was not brave enough to disregard her family's authority by continuing to insist. She worried about causing trouble, about interfering with something she did not fully understand. The last thing she wanted to do was make an already terrible situation worse. Yet she could not make herself stop looking. The more she was told to trust the people responsible for Leon's care, the more desperately she wanted to know what that trust rested upon.

Leon died in Austria under officially inconclusive circumstances.

Grief left Maeva with more questions than ever. She could never know whether her family’s research had helped Leon, harmed him, or simply turned his suffering into another opportunity for discovery. But what she did know was that love had not prevented them from making decisions about his life without him. For the first time she began to wonder whether obedience had made her complicit in things she would never have chosen had she understood them.

It was afterwards, in the wake of losing two brothers – one through death and the other through distance – that Maeva discovered her own aetheric capabilities. But the Finnegrens were to be disappointed in the yield; she possessed little in raw strength, particularly compared with the exceptional channelers the Finnegrens had always hoped to cultivate. Manipulation was difficult for her, and each test found her wanting, yet she displayed an unusual aptitude for a single aetheric component. Even today she possesses a precision and control that continues to far exceed what her modest potential might suggest.

Her first discovery was that she could weave temporary bonds between herself and other people. The talent was delicate, difficult to explain, and not without its risks. Maeva was still learning its limits, but she was immediately drawn to the possibilities it offered. It could bring people closer, make communication or understanding possible where it might otherwise fail, and create a connection that did not have to last forever to matter. To Maeva, there was something quietly extraordinary in that: the possibility of reaching another person without owning them.

But alongside the fascination came a more sobering question; she could not help but wonder whether she might have understood Leon’s suffering better had she known how to reach for him in this way – whether some part of him had been lonely or afraid while she remained at home, obediently accepting reassurances about his wellbeing. She knew such a bond could not undo death or guarantee greater understanding, but the possibility that she might have reached him – and did not – became difficult to set aside. Her curiosity was no longer merely the urge to uncover what was hidden; it became tangled with the fear of discovering too late what someone she loved needed her to see.

As Maeva grew older, the family’s expectations naturally turned toward marriage and lineage. A suitable match would strengthen alliances and preserve the bloodline, and her own wishes were treated as a consideration rather than a deciding factor. She trusted her father, that was not the issue. It had always been a normal expectation for her future, and yet for the first time she began struggling to find a way to make it acceptable. She did not want to disappoint her parents or turn against everything she had been taught. Privately she wondered whether her objections were selfish, whether she was being childish, and even whether a life chosen for her might still become one she could love. In truth she could imagine enduring an arrangement she had not wanted. What she could not bear was the possibility that, once she accepted it, every subsequent decision would be made for her on the assumption that she had already surrendered the right to choose.

The thought always brought her back to Leon. He had been sent away because the family believed they knew what was best for him. Whatever his own hopes and fears had been, they had been made secondary to the promise of what might be achieved. Maeva could not escape the suspicion that the same principle would eventually be applied to her. She was a daughter, an aetheric channeler, and a potential mother, but she was also a person. The distinction seemed obvious to her, yet she had grown up among people who could make it sound remarkably unreasonable.

Leaving Glenshae House was neither easy nor triumphant. Maeva spent time considering her options, worrying about the consequences, and searching for a solution that would allow her to remain a good daughter without surrendering her future. She was frightened of what might happen if she left, and guilty at the thought of hurting the people who had raised her. Part of her still hoped that if she could only explain herself properly they might understand.

But the longer she waited, the clearer it became that her family did not consider the decision hers to make.

So Maeva left.

She did not leave with a grand denunciation or a carefully prepared speech. She did not suddenly cease to love her parents, nor did she believe that escaping their reach would erase the years she had spent under their influence. She simply chose a future in which she might still make mistakes of her own. It was the first time she had deliberately disobeyed an expectation she could not quietly return to fulfilling, and the choice frightened her more than she cared to admit.

Freedom proved less romantic than she had imagined. Outside the family's protection, money had to be earned, and trust had to be earned even more slowly. Suddenly mistakes carried consequences that could not always be smoothed over by an influential surname. Maeva learned to be more cautious about what she revealed, more attentive to the motives of strangers, and less willing to assume that good intentions guaranteed good outcomes.

By 2047, she has built a life away from Glenshae House, but she has not entirely escaped the questions that drove her from it. Leon's death remains an open wound, made worse by the sense that the truth was always close enough to touch and yet carefully kept beyond her reach. She has tried to leave the past alone. She has tried to accept that some answers may never be hers. She has tried, more than once, to convince herself that there is nothing to be gained by looking back.

But then there is Theron.

The years have carried them further apart. Theron's potential made him the focus of the family's ambitions, and his eventual leadership of the Brotherhood of Ascension has placed him in the centre of a movement devoted to divinity, transcendence, and the promise of something beyond ordinary human limitations. He is now in Moscow, operating in the shadow of the Ascendancy, a man who has publicly declared himself a god. Maeva does not know whether Theron believes in the Brotherhood, has found true purpose within it, or is simply pursuing ambitions the family set in motion long ago.

She knows that Theron adopted Seraphis after Leon's death, taking a young orphaned channeler into his care and eventually bringing her with him to Moscow. Seraphis has become devoted to Theron and deeply involved in the Brotherhood's inner workings. Maeva does not know the full nature of their relationship, or what Theron expects of the young woman he has chosen to protect and guide. She can imagine the best of his intentions. She can also imagine how easily those intentions might become another kind of obligation.

Maeva has told herself that Theron is an adult and must be allowed to make his own decisions. He was never the brother she confided in most readily, and she has no wish to return to the role of a dutiful daughter who assumes responsibility for the family's troubles. She has her own life now, and she has already learned what it costs to let the Finnegrens decide what she owes them. But she cannot stop wondering what Theron knows about Leon's death. Whether he accepted the family's explanations as she once did. Whether his involvement with the Brotherhood is entirely his own choice. Whether he understands the dangers of the world he has entered, or whether he has become so invested in its promises that he no longer sees them clearly.

The questions have accumulated until she can no longer pretend they are merely idle curiosity.

She insists that she only wants to see him, to hear his account of the life he has chosen, and to decide for herself whether the fears she has entertained are justified. She is not travelling there to rescue him, nor does she imagine that she can simply persuade him to abandon everything he has built. She does not even know whether he will welcome her. They have never been close enough for her to assume that the bond of family will overcome years of distance, and she is painfully aware that Theron may regard her arrival as an intrusion.

Still, she cannot bear the possibility that something is happening to him, or that he knows something about Leon that she has never been allowed to discover, and that she chose not to look because looking was dangerous.

It is an imperfect reason to cross a continent. Maeva knows that. She is frightened, uncertain, and far from convinced that she is doing the sensible thing. She has spent years learning that curiosity can place her in danger, and she has no illusions that this time will be different. But she has never been particularly good at leaving a question unanswered when the people she loves are involved.

Powers

Maeva is a channeler with little raw power, barely able to light a candle, but is an unusual savant of Spirit. Her ability with that single thread far outstrips what should be possible given her lack of strength. Her foremost discovery is the creation of a temporary connection between her and another living thing, most often providing sensory feedback to their mood and wellbeing, and/or sharing her own. Though she’s not entirely aware, it is a connection that can also compel. Unusually, it also works on some animals, though this requires extraordinary delicacy. It can either last the moment of active weaving, or be tied off to degrade on its own with time and distance. Though it can deepen a connection with others, it does not make her infallible. She can sense another person's distress but not know its cause, or feel affection without being able to tell whether it will survive a difficult choice. She is still learning that such a bond, however intimate, can never spare her the work of knowing another person.

Her weaves are naturally intricate and are difficult for even skilled channelers to follow, both in speed and complexity. Because of the way she does them, many of her weaves would be dangerous for others to recreate. Currently she has little idea that one tiny error could have dire consequences for the recipient or herself.

Once discovered, Maeva will be naturally skilled at any weave requiring only or predominantly spirit. She has little to none ability for anything else.

Personality & Appearance

Maeva is compassionate, conscientious, and inclined towards routine and obedience rather than confrontation. She feels guilty when she disappoints someone, and she can mistake affection for good intentions or concern for a right to interfere. Her curiosity remains her greatest troublemaker: she asks the forbidden question, opens the locked door, and follows the thread even when she knows she may regret what she finds. She dislikes social media and online interactions, which feel less real to her. She is still learning that understanding someone does not mean she is entitled to every secret, just as loving someone does not mean she must obey them.

She has large, expressive hazel eyes, and gold-brown hair with a natural curl she usually keeps neatened into waves just above her shoulders, because she has been told all her life the curls are unruly. Her manner of dress tends towards girlish and conservative styles. Most people would consider it old fashioned, or just plain unfashionable, but she has never really questioned what she wears or thought about expression through her appearance. Her one rebellious act is the small tattoo of a butterfly underneath her collarbone, usually hidden by her clothing. If mischief occurs to her she does not normally act on the urge beyond private amusement (and she certainly has a vibrant interior life), but she can be encouraged by others. She trusts the intentions of those around her more easily than she should. She is still discovering who she might be away from family rules.

Not being able to bear complete estrangement, these days she keeps in touch with her parents, who quietly believe her resolve has softened despite her polite decline of every invitation to return home. She has not seen them or Theron in person since Cillian's funeral.]]>
Maeva was an IVF baby, born with a significant gap between her and her older siblings; she was one last, late attempt by her parents at securing genetic perfection. Amidst the grandeur of their ancestral estate at Glenshae House she was raised to be a good daughter: courteous, discreet, and above all obedient – all expectations she genuinely tried to meet as a child.

But though Maeva would never have dreamed of challenging her elders outright, curiosity had a way of outlasting even a simple instruction: she could accept it dutifully, without complaint, and still spend the next several hours wondering why it had been given in the first place. She wanted to understand how things worked, why people behaved as they did, and what lay beneath the surface of the world presented to her. Being told that something was private, inappropriate for her to know, or beyond her understanding rarely settled the matter, it just gave the question somewhere to hide.

She never set out to disobey on purpose. She would tell herself that she only wanted to look, that she would ask just one question, and that knowing the answer would help her understand why she had been told to leave the matter alone. She was always good at finding reasons to believe that her intentions made an indiscretion harmless. Sometimes she discovered something useful. And sometimes she found herself in trouble, with no satisfactory explanation for why she had not simply listened in the first place.

Of her brothers, Maeva had little of a relationship with Cillian (who was almost fifteen years her senior) and grew up closest to Leon. She was too young to understand the devastation of his ALS diagnosis, and never knew him any other way. In him she found someone she could ask questions without being made to feel foolish, admit uncertainty without having it turned into a lesson, and share her discoveries without wondering what use someone might make of them. Their closeness was easy in a way that little else in the Finnegren household was. Leon did not need to be her opposite or her accomplice in every indiscretion. He was simply someone who understood her, who could share a silence without demanding that it mean anything, and who made her feel that she was loved for herself rather than for what she might one day contribute to the family.

Theron, Leon's identical twin, occupied a different place in her life. She cared for him deeply, but the two were never as close. Perhaps it was simply a difference in temperament; perhaps it was the way the family increasingly centred its ambitions upon him after tragedy visited their family. As Theron's growing potential became apparent, he was drawn more deeply into the future Ronan and Fionnuala had envisioned for their children, and eventually his path took him away from the life they had shared at Glenshae House. She did not resent him for it, exactly. Their lives simply began to diverge, and whatever affection remained between them was complicated by the knowledge that they had grown up under the same roof without necessarily experiencing the same family.

The discovery of Leon’s aetheric channeling ability brought a new urgency to the family's interest in him. The Finnegrens had spent generations pursuing radical approaches to longevity, cellular regeneration, and the preservation of life, so to them Leon's condition was a tragedy that might now also present an opportunity to advance their work. He was sent to the Von Metternich family in Austria, whose methods of life prolongation were as controversial as they were ambitious. The decision was explained as necessary, perhaps even hopeful. Maeva was told that he would receive care unavailable elsewhere, that the family's connections gave him a chance, and that there was little to be gained by allowing emotion to interfere with a difficult medical decision.

She tried to believe them.

At first, she obeyed the instructions to be patient. She accepted the reassurances, wrote to Leon, and waited for information she was assured would come. When details were withheld, she tried to tell herself that she was being protected from the distress of a situation she could not change. But the explanations never quite aligned. The more she learned about the work being undertaken in Austria, the more questions arose about what was actually happening to her brother. She wanted to know what treatments he was receiving, who had made the decisions, and whether Leon himself had been given a choice. Every answer seemed to close one question while opening another.

Maeva found she was not brave enough to disregard her family's authority by continuing to insist. She worried about causing trouble, about interfering with something she did not fully understand. The last thing she wanted to do was make an already terrible situation worse. Yet she could not make herself stop looking. The more she was told to trust the people responsible for Leon's care, the more desperately she wanted to know what that trust rested upon.

Leon died in Austria under officially inconclusive circumstances.

Grief left Maeva with more questions than ever. She could never know whether her family’s research had helped Leon, harmed him, or simply turned his suffering into another opportunity for discovery. But what she did know was that love had not prevented them from making decisions about his life without him. For the first time she began to wonder whether obedience had made her complicit in things she would never have chosen had she understood them.

It was afterwards, in the wake of losing two brothers – one through death and the other through distance – that Maeva discovered her own aetheric capabilities. But the Finnegrens were to be disappointed in the yield; she possessed little in raw strength, particularly compared with the exceptional channelers the Finnegrens had always hoped to cultivate. Manipulation was difficult for her, and each test found her wanting, yet she displayed an unusual aptitude for a single aetheric component. Even today she possesses a precision and control that continues to far exceed what her modest potential might suggest.

Her first discovery was that she could weave temporary bonds between herself and other people. The talent was delicate, difficult to explain, and not without its risks. Maeva was still learning its limits, but she was immediately drawn to the possibilities it offered. It could bring people closer, make communication or understanding possible where it might otherwise fail, and create a connection that did not have to last forever to matter. To Maeva, there was something quietly extraordinary in that: the possibility of reaching another person without owning them.

But alongside the fascination came a more sobering question; she could not help but wonder whether she might have understood Leon’s suffering better had she known how to reach for him in this way – whether some part of him had been lonely or afraid while she remained at home, obediently accepting reassurances about his wellbeing. She knew such a bond could not undo death or guarantee greater understanding, but the possibility that she might have reached him – and did not – became difficult to set aside. Her curiosity was no longer merely the urge to uncover what was hidden; it became tangled with the fear of discovering too late what someone she loved needed her to see.

As Maeva grew older, the family’s expectations naturally turned toward marriage and lineage. A suitable match would strengthen alliances and preserve the bloodline, and her own wishes were treated as a consideration rather than a deciding factor. She trusted her father, that was not the issue. It had always been a normal expectation for her future, and yet for the first time she began struggling to find a way to make it acceptable. She did not want to disappoint her parents or turn against everything she had been taught. Privately she wondered whether her objections were selfish, whether she was being childish, and even whether a life chosen for her might still become one she could love. In truth she could imagine enduring an arrangement she had not wanted. What she could not bear was the possibility that, once she accepted it, every subsequent decision would be made for her on the assumption that she had already surrendered the right to choose.

The thought always brought her back to Leon. He had been sent away because the family believed they knew what was best for him. Whatever his own hopes and fears had been, they had been made secondary to the promise of what might be achieved. Maeva could not escape the suspicion that the same principle would eventually be applied to her. She was a daughter, an aetheric channeler, and a potential mother, but she was also a person. The distinction seemed obvious to her, yet she had grown up among people who could make it sound remarkably unreasonable.

Leaving Glenshae House was neither easy nor triumphant. Maeva spent time considering her options, worrying about the consequences, and searching for a solution that would allow her to remain a good daughter without surrendering her future. She was frightened of what might happen if she left, and guilty at the thought of hurting the people who had raised her. Part of her still hoped that if she could only explain herself properly they might understand.

But the longer she waited, the clearer it became that her family did not consider the decision hers to make.

So Maeva left.

She did not leave with a grand denunciation or a carefully prepared speech. She did not suddenly cease to love her parents, nor did she believe that escaping their reach would erase the years she had spent under their influence. She simply chose a future in which she might still make mistakes of her own. It was the first time she had deliberately disobeyed an expectation she could not quietly return to fulfilling, and the choice frightened her more than she cared to admit.

Freedom proved less romantic than she had imagined. Outside the family's protection, money had to be earned, and trust had to be earned even more slowly. Suddenly mistakes carried consequences that could not always be smoothed over by an influential surname. Maeva learned to be more cautious about what she revealed, more attentive to the motives of strangers, and less willing to assume that good intentions guaranteed good outcomes.

By 2047, she has built a life away from Glenshae House, but she has not entirely escaped the questions that drove her from it. Leon's death remains an open wound, made worse by the sense that the truth was always close enough to touch and yet carefully kept beyond her reach. She has tried to leave the past alone. She has tried to accept that some answers may never be hers. She has tried, more than once, to convince herself that there is nothing to be gained by looking back.

But then there is Theron.

The years have carried them further apart. Theron's potential made him the focus of the family's ambitions, and his eventual leadership of the Brotherhood of Ascension has placed him in the centre of a movement devoted to divinity, transcendence, and the promise of something beyond ordinary human limitations. He is now in Moscow, operating in the shadow of the Ascendancy, a man who has publicly declared himself a god. Maeva does not know whether Theron believes in the Brotherhood, has found true purpose within it, or is simply pursuing ambitions the family set in motion long ago.

She knows that Theron adopted Seraphis after Leon's death, taking a young orphaned channeler into his care and eventually bringing her with him to Moscow. Seraphis has become devoted to Theron and deeply involved in the Brotherhood's inner workings. Maeva does not know the full nature of their relationship, or what Theron expects of the young woman he has chosen to protect and guide. She can imagine the best of his intentions. She can also imagine how easily those intentions might become another kind of obligation.

Maeva has told herself that Theron is an adult and must be allowed to make his own decisions. He was never the brother she confided in most readily, and she has no wish to return to the role of a dutiful daughter who assumes responsibility for the family's troubles. She has her own life now, and she has already learned what it costs to let the Finnegrens decide what she owes them. But she cannot stop wondering what Theron knows about Leon's death. Whether he accepted the family's explanations as she once did. Whether his involvement with the Brotherhood is entirely his own choice. Whether he understands the dangers of the world he has entered, or whether he has become so invested in its promises that he no longer sees them clearly.

The questions have accumulated until she can no longer pretend they are merely idle curiosity.

She insists that she only wants to see him, to hear his account of the life he has chosen, and to decide for herself whether the fears she has entertained are justified. She is not travelling there to rescue him, nor does she imagine that she can simply persuade him to abandon everything he has built. She does not even know whether he will welcome her. They have never been close enough for her to assume that the bond of family will overcome years of distance, and she is painfully aware that Theron may regard her arrival as an intrusion.

Still, she cannot bear the possibility that something is happening to him, or that he knows something about Leon that she has never been allowed to discover, and that she chose not to look because looking was dangerous.

It is an imperfect reason to cross a continent. Maeva knows that. She is frightened, uncertain, and far from convinced that she is doing the sensible thing. She has spent years learning that curiosity can place her in danger, and she has no illusions that this time will be different. But she has never been particularly good at leaving a question unanswered when the people she loves are involved.

Powers

Maeva is a channeler with little raw power, barely able to light a candle, but is an unusual savant of Spirit. Her ability with that single thread far outstrips what should be possible given her lack of strength. Her foremost discovery is the creation of a temporary connection between her and another living thing, most often providing sensory feedback to their mood and wellbeing, and/or sharing her own. Though she’s not entirely aware, it is a connection that can also compel. Unusually, it also works on some animals, though this requires extraordinary delicacy. It can either last the moment of active weaving, or be tied off to degrade on its own with time and distance. Though it can deepen a connection with others, it does not make her infallible. She can sense another person's distress but not know its cause, or feel affection without being able to tell whether it will survive a difficult choice. She is still learning that such a bond, however intimate, can never spare her the work of knowing another person.

Her weaves are naturally intricate and are difficult for even skilled channelers to follow, both in speed and complexity. Because of the way she does them, many of her weaves would be dangerous for others to recreate. Currently she has little idea that one tiny error could have dire consequences for the recipient or herself.

Once discovered, Maeva will be naturally skilled at any weave requiring only or predominantly spirit. She has little to none ability for anything else.

Personality & Appearance

Maeva is compassionate, conscientious, and inclined towards routine and obedience rather than confrontation. She feels guilty when she disappoints someone, and she can mistake affection for good intentions or concern for a right to interfere. Her curiosity remains her greatest troublemaker: she asks the forbidden question, opens the locked door, and follows the thread even when she knows she may regret what she finds. She dislikes social media and online interactions, which feel less real to her. She is still learning that understanding someone does not mean she is entitled to every secret, just as loving someone does not mean she must obey them.

She has large, expressive hazel eyes, and gold-brown hair with a natural curl she usually keeps neatened into waves just above her shoulders, because she has been told all her life the curls are unruly. Her manner of dress tends towards girlish and conservative styles. Most people would consider it old fashioned, or just plain unfashionable, but she has never really questioned what she wears or thought about expression through her appearance. Her one rebellious act is the small tattoo of a butterfly underneath her collarbone, usually hidden by her clothing. If mischief occurs to her she does not normally act on the urge beyond private amusement (and she certainly has a vibrant interior life), but she can be encouraged by others. She trusts the intentions of those around her more easily than she should. She is still discovering who she might be away from family rules.

Not being able to bear complete estrangement, these days she keeps in touch with her parents, who quietly believe her resolve has softened despite her polite decline of every invitation to return home. She has not seen them or Theron in person since Cillian's funeral.]]> <![CDATA[Dreams and Prophecy]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1990.html Mon, 26 Oct 2026 16:52:32 +0000 Anita]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1990.html
Anita didn’t leave right away. Here she could think a bit. Then she’d leave and get some real sleep. Her mind was on Penny. Quillion had gotten her warm and pulled her out of hypothermia. She would be okay - physically anyways. She had also experienced some pretty heavy trauma. That would leave scars.

Anita felt pressure build behind her eyes, a feeling that always accompanied one of her prophetic visions. As she turned she saw Penny in front of her, kneeling on the ground and body shaking with sobs. Anita didn’t have to think to know that Penny was hurting on the inside. The girl tried to make herself as small as possible. She looked thinner and paler. Pain was clearly etched on her face. This situation would tear Penny up on the inside.

Poor girl Anita thought.

Anita’s gaze turned as she saw a man approach Penny. Anita didn’t recognize him, but he was dressed in quality clothing even if it was simple. Penny didn’t notice him until he knelt in front of her and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him and he pulled her gently into a hug. Penny sobbed into the man’s shoulder for a moment before he released the hug and wiped the tears from her eyes. He then stood and offered Penny his hand to help her stand. The pain didn’t disappear from Penny’s face, but it diminished greatly. A soft smile came to her lips as she took the man’s hand, stood, and allowed him to lead her away. Another man appeared in front of Anita, his back turned towards her. Penny looked over her shoulder at him, and then back at the man she now walked with, a look of uncertainty on her face.

Anita “woke up” again as the vision vanished. She was lying on the ground now. The visions always seemed to knock her unconscious for a bit. She sat up and thought about what she saw. Prophetic visions were always strange, but Anita was getting better at interpreting them - at least she thought she was. This one seemed straight forward though. Penny was going to struggle for awhile - and struggle hard. But she was going to get adopted, and was going to heal. The adoption would cause a conflict though. Penny would wonder if she should keep looking for her dad or not.

The thing that sucked was Anita couldn’t tell Penny this. A wise muppet once said “always in motion is the future.” Telling Penny she would get adopted might help her immediate pain, but it might also remove the catalyst that got her adopted in the first place. Anita shook her head. Sometimes prophecy was a pain. But hopefully she could find a way to still help the poor girl. Hopefully.]]>
Anita didn’t leave right away. Here she could think a bit. Then she’d leave and get some real sleep. Her mind was on Penny. Quillion had gotten her warm and pulled her out of hypothermia. She would be okay - physically anyways. She had also experienced some pretty heavy trauma. That would leave scars.

Anita felt pressure build behind her eyes, a feeling that always accompanied one of her prophetic visions. As she turned she saw Penny in front of her, kneeling on the ground and body shaking with sobs. Anita didn’t have to think to know that Penny was hurting on the inside. The girl tried to make herself as small as possible. She looked thinner and paler. Pain was clearly etched on her face. This situation would tear Penny up on the inside.

Poor girl Anita thought.

Anita’s gaze turned as she saw a man approach Penny. Anita didn’t recognize him, but he was dressed in quality clothing even if it was simple. Penny didn’t notice him until he knelt in front of her and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him and he pulled her gently into a hug. Penny sobbed into the man’s shoulder for a moment before he released the hug and wiped the tears from her eyes. He then stood and offered Penny his hand to help her stand. The pain didn’t disappear from Penny’s face, but it diminished greatly. A soft smile came to her lips as she took the man’s hand, stood, and allowed him to lead her away. Another man appeared in front of Anita, his back turned towards her. Penny looked over her shoulder at him, and then back at the man she now walked with, a look of uncertainty on her face.

Anita “woke up” again as the vision vanished. She was lying on the ground now. The visions always seemed to knock her unconscious for a bit. She sat up and thought about what she saw. Prophetic visions were always strange, but Anita was getting better at interpreting them - at least she thought she was. This one seemed straight forward though. Penny was going to struggle for awhile - and struggle hard. But she was going to get adopted, and was going to heal. The adoption would cause a conflict though. Penny would wonder if she should keep looking for her dad or not.

The thing that sucked was Anita couldn’t tell Penny this. A wise muppet once said “always in motion is the future.” Telling Penny she would get adopted might help her immediate pain, but it might also remove the catalyst that got her adopted in the first place. Anita shook her head. Sometimes prophecy was a pain. But hopefully she could find a way to still help the poor girl. Hopefully.]]> <![CDATA[The Last King of Erebos]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1989.html Tue, 20 Oct 2026 01:07:36 +0000 Ascendancy]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1989.html The Last King of Erebos

The 6th Age

Chapter One: The King Beneath the World

*

The 6th Age

Chapter One: The King Beneath the World

*

The petitioner had been trembling for the better part of an hour, and he had not yet been asked a question.

Hades found it tiresome. The man stood on the mosaic at the center of the Hall of Judgment, the third name on the morning's list, accused of nothing worse than helping someone out of the Underworld without leave. Fear was reasonable before a king who had ruled for seven centuries. This much of it made a man useless for answering questions, and Hades had questions.

He shifted on the throne, one hand resting on the polished arm while the other turned the signet ring on his finger. It was a small movement. The petitioner's eyes dropped at once.

The throne was cut from a single mass of black stone brought up from deep beneath the palace, veined with silver and set high on its dais at the far end of the hall. Petitioners who approached it tended to find that their courage had stayed behind at the bronze doors. Some knelt without being told. Hades had never seen a reason to correct the effect.

Overhead, the crystal fixtures in the vault still held the pale light of early morning. Within the hour the keepers of the day would bring them up toward noon, in this hall and on every tier of the city below, and Erebos would take it for the day. Between the doors and the dais, columns of polished obsidian carried the history of the kingdom. The overthrow of Kronos wound up the nearest of them, the work of craftsmen who had not been born when it happened and who had made it a single battle under an open sky when it had taken ten years, most of them in the dark. Farther along came the founding of Erebos, the hollowing of the first cities, and the binding of the great rivers that watered fields cut from the rock. Hades remembered all of it.

The hall was warm. Above it lay the mountain, and above the mountain the ice of the southern continent, and the warmth came up from the heat that ran far beneath the city, carried through the palace by workings of Dynamis older than anyone on the benches. The same works kept the agricultural terraces green, sweetened the water, moved the air through the caverns, and lit cities that had never seen a dawn of their own. Nearly all of them ran now without a god's hand on them, and few of his subjects had ever been cold. Hades counted that the best of what he had done.

"Tell me who you are."

The man swallowed. "Alketas, Your Majesty."

"The record knows that much."

A faint stir went along the benches. Alketas colored and bowed so deeply that Hades could see the thinning patch at the crown of his head.

"Alketas of the western gardens, Your Majesty. Keeper of the third conservatory at Elysium."

"Better."

Hades touched the record on its narrow table beside the throne. The crystal brightened, and the next of the testimony rose in lines of silver script while the lines before it faded. "You stand accused of sending a person out of my kingdom without leave, of forging the papers that carried her through nine of my Pyles, and of deceiving the transit officials who read them. Do you dispute any of it?"

"No, Your Majesty."

"Then explain why you did it."

Alketas hesitated. He wore what a prosperous tradesman wore, a dark green tunic edged with modest embroidery, pressed badly. Soil remained under one fingernail despite what had plainly been a hard scrubbing. An honest occupation, at least, and one that put something on the kingdom's tables. His eyes had gone to the key pinned at Hades's breast and stayed there, as petitioners' eyes often did. It was easier to look at than the face above it.

"My daughter wished to leave, my lord."

"That much is evident."

"She always wanted to see the world above. Ever since she was small, she asked about the sea, and the sun, and places where the sky had no mountains around it." His eyes came up from the key, searching for something, and went back down. "She was born in Elysium. She has never known anything else."

"Many thousands of my subjects were born in Elysium. Most of them manage to stay there without forging papers."

"Yes, my lord."

"How old is she?"

"Twenty-three."

"And you?"

"Sixty-one, my lord."

Sixty-one years. Barely enough time to acquire wisdom. The warmth in this hall was older than the man's grandfather.

"Your daughter is grown. She might have petitioned to depart."

"She believed it would be refused."

"An assumption that has now cost you your liberty."

Alketas bowed his head.

Hades said nothing for a time, and the court waited with him. His judgments were rarely hurried, though he had little patience for testimony that went nowhere, and he had heard this argument in many forms. Lovers desperate to reach someone beyond the borders. Adventurers enchanted by the romance of the surface. Scholars convinced that what they wanted to know could be learned only among nations less fortunate than his own.

They seldom considered what they carried with them.

From Elysium to the trading settlement at the kingdom's edge, the girl would have passed through nine Pyles, each linked to the next across country no one could cross on foot and live. Together they carried his people and their harvests from one end of the kingdom to the other, and no one in the overworld could say where a single one of them stood. Each had taken years and rare skill to make. Hades had not built a kingdom under the southern ice so that every restless young fool who confused freedom with distance could walk out of it with the way in her head.

At the edge of the dais, Thanatos had come in by the side passage and stopped beside one of the lesser columns. He was young by the standards of the Royal Chthonian Court, with light hair swept back from a finely made face, eyes that gave away very little, and dark clothes cut close and plain. The courtier nearest him found a reason to shift a little farther along the bench. Against his sleeve Thanatos held a slender piece of black stone. A stone meant Morpheus. Thanatos stayed where he was, and Hades returned to the petitioner.

"And where is your daughter now?"

"I don't know, my lord."

Hades looked at him.

Alketas wilted.

"I swear it. She was to go north, through the trading settlement. She promised she would send word when she was safe."

"Has she?"

"No."

"How long has it been?"

"Eleven days."

He had not needed to reckon it. He had been counting.

Hades leaned back. "You understand that the papers you made may have put others in danger. The officials who accepted them may now be suspected of complicity. The way your daughter went may no longer be safe. Should she speak carelessly of what she has seen here, the consequences will reach well beyond your family."

"She would never betray us."

"She has already shown an imperfect regard for the law."

"My lord, she only wanted to see the world."

"And you wished to give it to her."

Alketas looked up from the key, all the way to Hades's face, for the first time since he had given his name.

"Yes."

Hades knew something of the impulse, though his own father had understood it differently. Kronos had preferred obedience to affection, and control to trust. It had occurred to Hades more than once that his father might have spared himself a great deal of trouble had he learned the difference between raising children and ruling them. On the nearest column, carved in black, Kronos was falling.

Hades found that he had stopped turning the ring.

"You seem to believe that your daughter's happiness excuses what you have done."

"No, my lord. I only wished her to be free."

"Free." Hades gave the word back to him without warmth. "You have lived sixty-one years under my protection. You have never suffered a winter, never feared an invading army, never wondered whether the harvest would fail. And now you presume to decide which of the laws that preserve those comforts deserve your obedience."

Alketas's gaze went back to the key.

"Tell me. When you forged those papers, did you consider the lives you endangered? Or did your daughter's wishes fill the whole of your thoughts?"

"I thought the crossing was safe, my lord."

"Precisely. You thought no further than that."

He did not go on at once. There was no satisfaction in chastising a man who had already confessed, but Alketas was not the only one who needed to hear it. Hades meant the benches to hear it as well. Along them, the courtiers sat very still.

"You will be removed permanently from your place at Elysium," Hades said at last. "Your property will remain undisturbed, save for a levy sufficient to repay the kingdom for the inquiry your actions have made necessary. You will serve fifteen years in supervised confinement, and your knowledge of growing things will be put to use in the agricultural chambers beneath Erebos.”

Alketas stared.

Hades went on before the man could misunderstand. "Your daughter will not be pursued. She has placed herself beyond my protection, and she may find the world she wanted less accommodating than she imagined. Should she wish to return, she must present herself and submit to examination before any petition for her readmission is heard."

Alketas went to his knees.

"Thank you, my lord. Thank you."

"You have been sentenced to fifteen years' confinement, Alketas. I suggest you save your gratitude for a more fitting occasion."

But the man went on bowing and thanking him until the guards raised him, gently, and walked him to the bronze doors.

The doors closed behind him, and Hades looked at them a moment longer. The man had gone down on his knees at the words about his daughter. The fifteen years he seemed not to have heard at all.

He inclined his head. Thanatos came to the foot of the dais and bowed.

"My lord. A dispatch has arrived from Morpheus."

"Another."

"The third this week."

"I had not known Olympus could produce three matters worth reporting in a single week."

Thanatos's lips moved, very slightly. Whether that was amusement or only acknowledgment, Hades had never been able to say.

"It concerns the rebellion, my lord."

Hades held out his hand.

The stone was scarcely larger than a man's palm, polished black and crossed with fine silver lines that met in a single dark gem. Hephaestus had made the Oneiroi's stones at Morpheus's asking, and no one else had ever worked out how. Each was linked to the next in a chain that ran from Erebos to the stations Morpheus kept far beyond the borders. He used them for official reports and kept the Land of Dreams for what needed haste or discretion.

At a touch the gem brightened, and words rose above the stone and hung in the air in Morpheus's heavy, upright hand. His reports were like the man: to the point and practical, with little room for speculation.

Another stronghold had fallen, this one in Thrace. The god who held it was dead, several lesser gods of his household were missing, and the mortal army that had taken the city was consolidating along the roads.

The Atharim.

Hades had heard the name often enough in recent years. What had begun as scattered risings against isolated gods had become something more troublesome. Mortals had always rebelled against their betters, and now and then they won, for a while, until they quarreled among themselves, or their leaders failed them, or a god arrived with the strength to restore order. These Atharim kept on.

He read the dispatch a second time, slower over the account of the god's death. The ground around the body had been trampled by men and by nothing else. He had died as a man dies, of spear wounds.

"Interesting," he said quietly.

Thanatos waited.

"They have learned another method."

"So it would appear."

Hades touched the stone, and the words sank back into the gem. Beyond the columns, the court waited for its business to resume. Beyond the palace, the cities went about an ordinary morning: the rivers ran in their channels, the fields grew under their fixtures, and thousands of his subjects lived lives that had known neither conquest nor war for generations.

His brothers had been warned often enough that their excesses would bring consequences. Zeus had laughed at the warnings. Poseidon had generally threatened whoever delivered them. Now the mortals were answering.

"Shall I summon the council, my lord?"

Hades gave him back the stone. "No. Tell Morpheus I want to know what was done to that god before the spears reached him, and whether anyone who should know better helped them do it."

"And Olympus?"

"What of it?"

"Will you send word?"

Hades looked toward the bronze doors. Somewhere beyond the ice, a young woman was seeing the world her father had given fifteen years for. Farther off, gods who had ruled since the Titans fell were learning that the obedience of mortals had an end.

"Zeus has never lacked for advice, Thanatos. I doubt he would welcome mine now."

He gestured toward the waiting court.

"Send in the next petitioner."]]> <![CDATA[Dominik Taicheschski]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1988.html Sun, 11 Oct 2026 22:57:15 +0000 Dominik Taicheschski]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1988.html
Despite his slender stature and youthful appearance, Dominik is a capable and disciplined Dominion whose affable personality conceals a perceptive mind. Curious, playful, and occasionally mischievous, he enjoys testing boundaries and uncovering secrets, though his inability to leave certain mysteries alone has occasionally caused him considerable trouble.

Born and raised in St. Petersburg, Dominik was fascinated with mysteries, espionage, and the complexities of human behavior. An enthusiastic reader of spy novels and murder-mystery fiction, he spent much of his adolescence imagining a future filled with international intrigue, clandestine operations, and elaborate conspiracies. His natural curiosity extended to the people around him, whose motivations and secrets he found endlessly fascinating.

After studying international relations and security, Dominik enlisted in the CCD intelligence services with considerable enthusiasm, only to discover that entry-level counterintelligence involved far more background checks, personnel interviews, and tedious reports than the glamorous adventures he had imagined. Nevertheless, he proved adept at the work. His ability to recognize inconsistencies distinguished him from his peers that drew the attention of his superiors.

Dominik attracted significant attention when he uncovered a security breach that more senior investigators had failed to recognize. While suspicion had fallen upon an officer with apparent financial and professional vulnerabilities, Dominik identified evidence suggesting the investigation itself was being manipulated. His persistence ultimately exposed a respected official who had deliberately directed suspicion toward an innocent colleague while concealing his own involvement.

His professional integrity was subsequently tested when a separate investigation implicated a mentor who had supported his career. Despite their personal relationship, Dominik reported the security violation, demonstrating his willingness to place duty first. These accomplishments established his reputation as an intelligence analyst with great career potential, though his persistent curiosity and occasional disregard for personal boundaries sometimes complicated his relationships with colleagues.

Dominik’s ability to channel first manifested during a routine investigation involving an individual suspected of compromising sensitive information. During questioning, several inconsistencies in the suspect’s account were identified and the suspect was pressed for an explanation. Growing increasingly agitated, the man suddenly lunged toward a nearby security officer, attempting to seize his weapon.

Dominik reacted instinctively. Before the suspect could reach the weapon, an invisible force seized him, holding him motionless in midstride. The man struggled helplessly against the restraint while the astonished officers attempted to comprehend what had happened. Dominik was equally bewildered, though he experienced an inexplicable certainty that he was somehow responsible. When his concentration broke, the restraint vanished, and the suspect stumbled forward.

The incident prompted Custody officials to evaluate whether Dominik had channeled the Ascendancy’s power. Though initially unsettled, his apprehension quickly gave way to fascination. During his later training among the Dominions, he demonstrated a natural aptitude for precision, restraint, and containment weaves. His intelligence background complemented these abilities, allowing him to approach confrontations strategically and recognize opportunities to neutralize threats without unnecessary destruction.

This brought him to the attention of Commander Vellas.

Dominik’s selection for the Nine represented an extraordinary advancement for someone so young. Although he lacked the extensive military experience of some of his brethren, his intelligence background stood out as great potential to Michael. His aptitude for containment and defensive applications of the Ascendancy’s power further eventually him among the Nine.

Dominik takes his responsibilities seriously and maintains an almost absolute devotion to the Ascendancy. Despite his playful disposition outside of duty, he understands the importance of discipline and reliability during operations. His tendency to question decisions or test boundaries rarely compromises his professional obligations, though his inquisitive nature often tests Michael Vellas’s patience.

Although Michael and Dominik do not always enjoy an easy relationship, Michael recognizes the value of his abilities. Eventually, he entrusted Dominik with a highly classified responsibility: discreetly assessing the loyalty, vulnerabilities, and potential compromise of his fellow Dominions.

Dominik reports significant concerns directly to Michael, while his brethren remain unaware of the assignment. The responsibility is both an honor and a burden, requiring him to maintain professional objectivity toward those he considers friends. It also places him in the peculiar position of protecting the secrets of an organization while quietly investigating those entrusted with keeping them.

Personality and Interests

Dominik is friendly, curious, quick-witted, and remarkably observant. He enjoys people and possesses a natural talent for making conversation, often using humor and gentle teasing to put others at ease. His intelligence background has made it difficult to resist commenting upon his observations even in casual conversation.

His greatest weakness is an inability to leave questions unanswered. Dominik dislikes uncertainty and can become preoccupied with mysteries that others consider insignificant. He is the very personification of curiosity killing the cat. While this persistence serves him well professionally, it can make him intrusive in his personal relationships. He sometimes presses for explanations that others are unwilling to provide, struggling to recognize that not every secret is his to uncover.

Despite these tendencies, Dominik is neither habitually confrontational nor particularly arrogant. He enjoys a good joke, especially at his own expense, and takes considerably more pleasure in solving a mystery than demonstrating his superiority over it. His curiosity occasionally leads him into mischief, particularly when an opportunity presents itself to investigate something he has been explicitly told to leave alone.

Outside his duties, Dominik retains many of the interests he enjoyed before becoming a Dominion. An avid reader, he delights in solving fictional conspiracies before their protagonists. He is equally enthusiastic about video games and tabletop roleplaying, particularly games involving elaborate mysteries, morally complicated characters, and opportunities for creative problem-solving. He has also been known to enjoy carnivals, festivals, and the occasional recreational indulgence with friends.

Dominik is happiest among friends who share his enthusiasm for games, stories, and good-natured mischief. His relocation to Moscow following his recruitment disrupted much of that familiar social circle, leaving him to establish new friendships outside his demanding professional responsibilities.

Among the Dominions, he has developed a particularly close friendship with Julian Monserre. The two frequently enjoy one another’s company outside duty, occasionally serving as wingmen during their attempts to navigate Moscow’s hook-up scene. Their friendship provides Dominik with a welcome opportunity to relax among someone who values his company rather than his professional accomplishments.

Dominik also respects Karim al’Shaidis, whose competence and natural leadership have earned the confidence of Michael Vellas. Although he occasionally envies Karim’s privileged position within the Nine, his admiration is genuine.

In the few romantic relationships he has had, Dominik can be affectionate, attentive, and intensely devoted. Yet his discomfort with uncertainty sometimes manifests as possessiveness, particularly when he feels excluded from an important part of his partner’s life. He is remarkably skilled at understanding other people’s emotions but considerably less adept at recognizing when his own curiosity has become intrusive.

Physical Appearance

Standing at 6’2″, Dominik possesses a tall, slender build with narrow shoulders and long limbs that lend him a somewhat delicate appearance. His features are angular and finely defined, with prominent cheekbones, a narrow jaw, and a youthful, almost boyish quality to his face.

His dark brown hair is thick and slightly tousled, framing pale skin and expressive, dark eyes. Though his stature is considerable, he lacks the imposing physique of a traditional soldier, an impression reinforced by his relaxed posture and casual manner. His appearance can be deceptively unassuming, particularly among the more physically intimidating members of the Nine Dominions.]]>
Despite his slender stature and youthful appearance, Dominik is a capable and disciplined Dominion whose affable personality conceals a perceptive mind. Curious, playful, and occasionally mischievous, he enjoys testing boundaries and uncovering secrets, though his inability to leave certain mysteries alone has occasionally caused him considerable trouble.

Born and raised in St. Petersburg, Dominik was fascinated with mysteries, espionage, and the complexities of human behavior. An enthusiastic reader of spy novels and murder-mystery fiction, he spent much of his adolescence imagining a future filled with international intrigue, clandestine operations, and elaborate conspiracies. His natural curiosity extended to the people around him, whose motivations and secrets he found endlessly fascinating.

After studying international relations and security, Dominik enlisted in the CCD intelligence services with considerable enthusiasm, only to discover that entry-level counterintelligence involved far more background checks, personnel interviews, and tedious reports than the glamorous adventures he had imagined. Nevertheless, he proved adept at the work. His ability to recognize inconsistencies distinguished him from his peers that drew the attention of his superiors.

Dominik attracted significant attention when he uncovered a security breach that more senior investigators had failed to recognize. While suspicion had fallen upon an officer with apparent financial and professional vulnerabilities, Dominik identified evidence suggesting the investigation itself was being manipulated. His persistence ultimately exposed a respected official who had deliberately directed suspicion toward an innocent colleague while concealing his own involvement.

His professional integrity was subsequently tested when a separate investigation implicated a mentor who had supported his career. Despite their personal relationship, Dominik reported the security violation, demonstrating his willingness to place duty first. These accomplishments established his reputation as an intelligence analyst with great career potential, though his persistent curiosity and occasional disregard for personal boundaries sometimes complicated his relationships with colleagues.

Dominik’s ability to channel first manifested during a routine investigation involving an individual suspected of compromising sensitive information. During questioning, several inconsistencies in the suspect’s account were identified and the suspect was pressed for an explanation. Growing increasingly agitated, the man suddenly lunged toward a nearby security officer, attempting to seize his weapon.

Dominik reacted instinctively. Before the suspect could reach the weapon, an invisible force seized him, holding him motionless in midstride. The man struggled helplessly against the restraint while the astonished officers attempted to comprehend what had happened. Dominik was equally bewildered, though he experienced an inexplicable certainty that he was somehow responsible. When his concentration broke, the restraint vanished, and the suspect stumbled forward.

The incident prompted Custody officials to evaluate whether Dominik had channeled the Ascendancy’s power. Though initially unsettled, his apprehension quickly gave way to fascination. During his later training among the Dominions, he demonstrated a natural aptitude for precision, restraint, and containment weaves. His intelligence background complemented these abilities, allowing him to approach confrontations strategically and recognize opportunities to neutralize threats without unnecessary destruction.

This brought him to the attention of Commander Vellas.

Dominik’s selection for the Nine represented an extraordinary advancement for someone so young. Although he lacked the extensive military experience of some of his brethren, his intelligence background stood out as great potential to Michael. His aptitude for containment and defensive applications of the Ascendancy’s power further eventually him among the Nine.

Dominik takes his responsibilities seriously and maintains an almost absolute devotion to the Ascendancy. Despite his playful disposition outside of duty, he understands the importance of discipline and reliability during operations. His tendency to question decisions or test boundaries rarely compromises his professional obligations, though his inquisitive nature often tests Michael Vellas’s patience.

Although Michael and Dominik do not always enjoy an easy relationship, Michael recognizes the value of his abilities. Eventually, he entrusted Dominik with a highly classified responsibility: discreetly assessing the loyalty, vulnerabilities, and potential compromise of his fellow Dominions.

Dominik reports significant concerns directly to Michael, while his brethren remain unaware of the assignment. The responsibility is both an honor and a burden, requiring him to maintain professional objectivity toward those he considers friends. It also places him in the peculiar position of protecting the secrets of an organization while quietly investigating those entrusted with keeping them.

Personality and Interests

Dominik is friendly, curious, quick-witted, and remarkably observant. He enjoys people and possesses a natural talent for making conversation, often using humor and gentle teasing to put others at ease. His intelligence background has made it difficult to resist commenting upon his observations even in casual conversation.

His greatest weakness is an inability to leave questions unanswered. Dominik dislikes uncertainty and can become preoccupied with mysteries that others consider insignificant. He is the very personification of curiosity killing the cat. While this persistence serves him well professionally, it can make him intrusive in his personal relationships. He sometimes presses for explanations that others are unwilling to provide, struggling to recognize that not every secret is his to uncover.

Despite these tendencies, Dominik is neither habitually confrontational nor particularly arrogant. He enjoys a good joke, especially at his own expense, and takes considerably more pleasure in solving a mystery than demonstrating his superiority over it. His curiosity occasionally leads him into mischief, particularly when an opportunity presents itself to investigate something he has been explicitly told to leave alone.

Outside his duties, Dominik retains many of the interests he enjoyed before becoming a Dominion. An avid reader, he delights in solving fictional conspiracies before their protagonists. He is equally enthusiastic about video games and tabletop roleplaying, particularly games involving elaborate mysteries, morally complicated characters, and opportunities for creative problem-solving. He has also been known to enjoy carnivals, festivals, and the occasional recreational indulgence with friends.

Dominik is happiest among friends who share his enthusiasm for games, stories, and good-natured mischief. His relocation to Moscow following his recruitment disrupted much of that familiar social circle, leaving him to establish new friendships outside his demanding professional responsibilities.

Among the Dominions, he has developed a particularly close friendship with Julian Monserre. The two frequently enjoy one another’s company outside duty, occasionally serving as wingmen during their attempts to navigate Moscow’s hook-up scene. Their friendship provides Dominik with a welcome opportunity to relax among someone who values his company rather than his professional accomplishments.

Dominik also respects Karim al’Shaidis, whose competence and natural leadership have earned the confidence of Michael Vellas. Although he occasionally envies Karim’s privileged position within the Nine, his admiration is genuine.

In the few romantic relationships he has had, Dominik can be affectionate, attentive, and intensely devoted. Yet his discomfort with uncertainty sometimes manifests as possessiveness, particularly when he feels excluded from an important part of his partner’s life. He is remarkably skilled at understanding other people’s emotions but considerably less adept at recognizing when his own curiosity has become intrusive.

Physical Appearance

Standing at 6’2″, Dominik possesses a tall, slender build with narrow shoulders and long limbs that lend him a somewhat delicate appearance. His features are angular and finely defined, with prominent cheekbones, a narrow jaw, and a youthful, almost boyish quality to his face.

His dark brown hair is thick and slightly tousled, framing pale skin and expressive, dark eyes. Though his stature is considerable, he lacks the imposing physique of a traditional soldier, an impression reinforced by his relaxed posture and casual manner. His appearance can be deceptively unassuming, particularly among the more physically intimidating members of the Nine Dominions.]]> <![CDATA[Tradition and Progress (Kaizen)]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1987.html Thu, 17 Sep 2026 00:43:57 +0000 Grace]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1987.html
Grace couldn’t believe she was here. She had left the states about two weeks ago. She was grateful to Eve for getting her out. Things were a lot more stable here. As a result, Grace felt a lot more grounded. It wasn’t long after her arrival in Moscow that Eve had contacted her about a job she thought Grace would be good at.

Eve was very clear what the job entailed and wouldn’t force her into it, but thought given her natural nature to be empathetic and her preference for being tactile. Grace was game and thought she would enjoy, so she was now a host at Kaizen - a club located right next to the Radiance Hotel.

As a hostess - she was selected by the clients for a variety of reasons. She was flexible and easily adapted to her clients. She had several repeat customers and was beginning to make money. She was finding the work both enjoyable and successful.

The weather was expected to be bad and she wondered how many were going to show up. So far she didn’t have a customer seeking her attention. She was ready regardless. Not having to worry so much about housing, she had spent her money getting more attire. She wore a beautiful red evening gown that accentuated her body. She was hoping someone would come in. Grace would love to be social and show someone a good time.]]>
Grace couldn’t believe she was here. She had left the states about two weeks ago. She was grateful to Eve for getting her out. Things were a lot more stable here. As a result, Grace felt a lot more grounded. It wasn’t long after her arrival in Moscow that Eve had contacted her about a job she thought Grace would be good at.

Eve was very clear what the job entailed and wouldn’t force her into it, but thought given her natural nature to be empathetic and her preference for being tactile. Grace was game and thought she would enjoy, so she was now a host at Kaizen - a club located right next to the Radiance Hotel.

As a hostess - she was selected by the clients for a variety of reasons. She was flexible and easily adapted to her clients. She had several repeat customers and was beginning to make money. She was finding the work both enjoyable and successful.

The weather was expected to be bad and she wondered how many were going to show up. So far she didn’t have a customer seeking her attention. She was ready regardless. Not having to worry so much about housing, she had spent her money getting more attire. She wore a beautiful red evening gown that accentuated her body. She was hoping someone would come in. Grace would love to be social and show someone a good time.]]> <![CDATA[Kaizen?]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1986.html Sat, 12 Sep 2026 23:04:28 +0000 Grace]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1986.html <![CDATA[Red Blood, White Snow, Green Cloak]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1985.html Wed, 09 Sep 2026 20:42:22 +0000 Olivier de Volthström]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1985.html
The hunt had been unsuccessful and that in itself was a disappointment. But the situation had Olivier on edge. He had seen nothing. That was odd. A storm was expected and Olivier had planned for it - but the fact the game had already disappeared meant something. Animals had an almost preternatural instinct for when to go to ground. Olivier had a feeling this one would be bad. And that meant it was time to go home.

Olivier pulled out his bow case and began to pack it up. This wasn’t his performance bow. The one he used in competition. His competition bow as made of carbon fiber and fiberglass composites with aluminum risers and pulleys. It had stabilizers and the works - whatever his sponsors wanted on it. It had a sixty pound pull. His hunting bow was much more simple. Even if it had a 60 pound pull, it was nothing more than yew wood and a polyethylene string. But the bow felt right. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt right in his hands.

He packed his equipment, pulled down the hood of his green coat, and got in the truck. He should be able to make it back to the Radiance in time. He pulled out and hit the road. The way was quiet and lonely. Few houses dotted the landscape. Some sort of castle was in the distance. He passed a solitary house and did a double take. The house was severely damaged, and Olivier was sure that it hadn’t been that way as he had passed it coming out here. He checked the time. He didn’t have much. He couldn’t afford to stop. He sighed. He also couldn’t in good conscience leave without checking.

Olivier pulled his truck to the side. Something large had taken out a corner of the house. It still stood, but was definitely not habitable. someone could be hurt. He began to move to the building and paused, looking back at his truck. After a moment he returned and grabbed his longbow and quiver. He approached the building and entered through the large hole, making sure to touch as little as possible. Hearing movement, Olivier instinctively ducked, and the sound of wind and a crack against the wall gave him some relief. He had barely missed it.

Olivier turned to see a young man, around 16 or 17 holding a Bo staff. The kid stepped back and his stance showed he had some training. Olivier saw the hesitation in the kid’s eyes, but there was something else - fear. The kid was afraid. ”Here to help kid - not going to hurt you.” The kid stood firm.

Shit]]>
The hunt had been unsuccessful and that in itself was a disappointment. But the situation had Olivier on edge. He had seen nothing. That was odd. A storm was expected and Olivier had planned for it - but the fact the game had already disappeared meant something. Animals had an almost preternatural instinct for when to go to ground. Olivier had a feeling this one would be bad. And that meant it was time to go home.

Olivier pulled out his bow case and began to pack it up. This wasn’t his performance bow. The one he used in competition. His competition bow as made of carbon fiber and fiberglass composites with aluminum risers and pulleys. It had stabilizers and the works - whatever his sponsors wanted on it. It had a sixty pound pull. His hunting bow was much more simple. Even if it had a 60 pound pull, it was nothing more than yew wood and a polyethylene string. But the bow felt right. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt right in his hands.

He packed his equipment, pulled down the hood of his green coat, and got in the truck. He should be able to make it back to the Radiance in time. He pulled out and hit the road. The way was quiet and lonely. Few houses dotted the landscape. Some sort of castle was in the distance. He passed a solitary house and did a double take. The house was severely damaged, and Olivier was sure that it hadn’t been that way as he had passed it coming out here. He checked the time. He didn’t have much. He couldn’t afford to stop. He sighed. He also couldn’t in good conscience leave without checking.

Olivier pulled his truck to the side. Something large had taken out a corner of the house. It still stood, but was definitely not habitable. someone could be hurt. He began to move to the building and paused, looking back at his truck. After a moment he returned and grabbed his longbow and quiver. He approached the building and entered through the large hole, making sure to touch as little as possible. Hearing movement, Olivier instinctively ducked, and the sound of wind and a crack against the wall gave him some relief. He had barely missed it.

Olivier turned to see a young man, around 16 or 17 holding a Bo staff. The kid stepped back and his stance showed he had some training. Olivier saw the hesitation in the kid’s eyes, but there was something else - fear. The kid was afraid. ”Here to help kid - not going to hurt you.” The kid stood firm.

Shit]]> <![CDATA[What to Do For Catacylsm event]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1984.html Wed, 09 Sep 2026 05:48:41 +0000 Olivier de Volthström]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1984.html <![CDATA[Belizna during the mega snow storm]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1983.html Sun, 06 Sep 2026 15:48:43 +0000 Jay Carpenter]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1983.html
*maniacal plotting laughter ensues...

Post here, if you dare...]]>
*maniacal plotting laughter ensues...

Post here, if you dare...]]> <![CDATA[Finishing Antarctica]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1982.html Sat, 05 Sep 2026 20:21:21 +0000 Jaxen Marveet]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1982.html
It's been fun, but uh, any objections if we wrap up Antarctica with a bit of hand waving?

Last I think was going on, Sierra, Elyse, and Tenzin were going to put their heads together, figure out our exact location and send rescue.

Meantime, Tristan and Thalia will stay alive long enough to get rescued.

I'm thinking boat to Argentina or somewhere then fly home for the big reunion.]]>
It's been fun, but uh, any objections if we wrap up Antarctica with a bit of hand waving?

Last I think was going on, Sierra, Elyse, and Tenzin were going to put their heads together, figure out our exact location and send rescue.

Meantime, Tristan and Thalia will stay alive long enough to get rescued.

I'm thinking boat to Argentina or somewhere then fly home for the big reunion.]]> <![CDATA[Amputation [Belizna]]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1981.html Sun, 30 Aug 2026 18:12:25 +0000 Jay Carpenter]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1981.html
He doubted she noticed his withdrawal. Especially when distance was his middle name. At first, he’d hovered around Belizna, offering to help wherever he could, though his right hand remained locked in the ER's cast. When physical labor was out of the question, he leaned into the wizardry of his power. Tearing down scaffolding with his mind went much swifter than a team of laborers with power tools, and it gave him an excuse to sweat, strain, and stay miles away from Natalie’s hip.

He had no head for corporate architecture or the politics. A few stray moments of nostalgia flickered to life when she walked through financials with her lawyers, but they died quickly under the weight of his own uselessness. He had nothing to offer those conversations except a quiet, vacant nod and an inkling to give more.

The more physical tasks he volunteered to do, the wider the chasms grew. It worked decently until Adrian Kane showed up.

Jay had no idea he and Natalie shared a history, nor how deep the roots of it went. But once their business partnership was spelled out, the alignment of it all became blindingly obvious. Adrian didn't just fit into Natalie’s world; he elevated it. He seemed to draw her out in a way Jay couldn't. Even if he recognized Natalie's sarcasm and dry humor for what it was, at least it was better than the depressing pity he saw when she looked his way

Looking at them together, Jay was slow to accept. that Adrian was a better match for her in every conceivable way.]]>
He doubted she noticed his withdrawal. Especially when distance was his middle name. At first, he’d hovered around Belizna, offering to help wherever he could, though his right hand remained locked in the ER's cast. When physical labor was out of the question, he leaned into the wizardry of his power. Tearing down scaffolding with his mind went much swifter than a team of laborers with power tools, and it gave him an excuse to sweat, strain, and stay miles away from Natalie’s hip.

He had no head for corporate architecture or the politics. A few stray moments of nostalgia flickered to life when she walked through financials with her lawyers, but they died quickly under the weight of his own uselessness. He had nothing to offer those conversations except a quiet, vacant nod and an inkling to give more.

The more physical tasks he volunteered to do, the wider the chasms grew. It worked decently until Adrian Kane showed up.

Jay had no idea he and Natalie shared a history, nor how deep the roots of it went. But once their business partnership was spelled out, the alignment of it all became blindingly obvious. Adrian didn't just fit into Natalie’s world; he elevated it. He seemed to draw her out in a way Jay couldn't. Even if he recognized Natalie's sarcasm and dry humor for what it was, at least it was better than the depressing pity he saw when she looked his way

Looking at them together, Jay was slow to accept. that Adrian was a better match for her in every conceivable way.]]> <![CDATA[Finding my footing]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1980.html Sun, 19 Jul 2026 02:51:29 +0000 Aine]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1980.html Moscow. Her family back in Ireland still sent messages, imploring her to be careful, which she was...when she was paying attention. She had bumped into so many people on campus, because she kept being distracted by this and that. How would she cope out in the city?

Settling some pencils and sketchbooks into her bag, she started to look around her room for anything else she needed. A pile from her classes in the corner of the living room caught her eye and she thought back to her lessons. The assortment of supplies, projects in progress, and books on technique weren't really helping. No, this was a break. Just a trip to clear her mind and let her breathe for just an hour or so. Hopefully.

Zipping her light purple jacket up, she slipped on her boots, and walked out of her apartment. Then realized she forgot her keys. Aine flew back in and grabbed them, locking the door behind her as she left and shook her head as she let out a sigh with a little laugh behind it. There was so much to do, she couldn't keep up with it all! As she walked out of her apartment building and toward the university campus, she was glad to have so much to do. Her Nan always said it was a blessing to be busy.

Aine let her mind wander as her feet did until she found a bench with a lovely view. She sat down and set her bag of supplies next to her and began to doodle. Her classes had been so intense, and moving from a small Irish town to Moscow had been such a change that she just needed a little time to do nothing. And, since Aine was bad at doing nothing, she did a small bit of something she loved.]]> Moscow. Her family back in Ireland still sent messages, imploring her to be careful, which she was...when she was paying attention. She had bumped into so many people on campus, because she kept being distracted by this and that. How would she cope out in the city?

Settling some pencils and sketchbooks into her bag, she started to look around her room for anything else she needed. A pile from her classes in the corner of the living room caught her eye and she thought back to her lessons. The assortment of supplies, projects in progress, and books on technique weren't really helping. No, this was a break. Just a trip to clear her mind and let her breathe for just an hour or so. Hopefully.

Zipping her light purple jacket up, she slipped on her boots, and walked out of her apartment. Then realized she forgot her keys. Aine flew back in and grabbed them, locking the door behind her as she left and shook her head as she let out a sigh with a little laugh behind it. There was so much to do, she couldn't keep up with it all! As she walked out of her apartment building and toward the university campus, she was glad to have so much to do. Her Nan always said it was a blessing to be busy.

Aine let her mind wander as her feet did until she found a bench with a lovely view. She sat down and set her bag of supplies next to her and began to doodle. Her classes had been so intense, and moving from a small Irish town to Moscow had been such a change that she just needed a little time to do nothing. And, since Aine was bad at doing nothing, she did a small bit of something she loved.]]> <![CDATA[Living where none should live]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1979.html Fri, 17 Jul 2026 23:22:47 +0000 Marek]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1979.html
It was too narrow, too cold in winter and too hot in summer, its walls little more than thin sheets of aluminum riveted over a steel frame. Once it had housed nothing but spare rigging and electrical supplies, following the Carnival from city to city like an oversized toolbox on wheels. Somewhere along the years, Marek had simply taken it over. Nobody objected because it made sense. The tools already belonged there.

The trailer smelled of grease, dust, and solder. Coils of cable hung from dozens of hooks. Shelves bowed beneath neatly stacked bins filled with bolts, bearings, washers, and fittings collected from rides that no longer existed. Broken floodlights waited beside stripped generators. An old carousel horse's cracked fiberglass head leaned against the wall beside a milk crate overflowing with copper wire.

To anyone else it looked like junk, but Marek could have found any piece in the room with his eyes closed.

He stood at the ramshackle workbench, broad shoulders bent beneath the fluorescent strip light overhead, turning a socket wrench one final time before giving the repaired gearbox an experimental spin. The teeth meshed cleanly.

Good enough.

He wiped his hands across an already stained shop rag before tossing it onto the bench. His palms remained black around the creases no matter how often he scrubbed them. Grease had a habit of becoming part of a man after enough time.

The workshop occupied most of the trailer, but the far corner belonged to him. A couple of old chairs rescued from a roadside cleanup was squished beneath a battered flat-screen television mounted crookedly on the wall. The screen was older than most of the performers who wandered through the Carnival these days, but it still worked. So did the game console beneath it, its casing cracked and yellowed, both controllers repaired enough times that fresh plastic gave way to epoxy and tape.

Nearby a little fridge hummed beneath the window. Beside it rested an overflowing ashtray and a coffee mug filled with loose screws instead of coffee.

He rolled a joint with practiced fingers, struck a lighter, and leaned against the workbench while the first lungful settled into his chest. The tension behind his shoulders immediately loosened by degrees, but his thoughts wandered where they shouldn't. To a pendant of bone wrapped in copper and the line of her jaw disappearing in the cowl of his work coat.

He frowned and exhaled sharply through his nose, smoke following.]]>
It was too narrow, too cold in winter and too hot in summer, its walls little more than thin sheets of aluminum riveted over a steel frame. Once it had housed nothing but spare rigging and electrical supplies, following the Carnival from city to city like an oversized toolbox on wheels. Somewhere along the years, Marek had simply taken it over. Nobody objected because it made sense. The tools already belonged there.

The trailer smelled of grease, dust, and solder. Coils of cable hung from dozens of hooks. Shelves bowed beneath neatly stacked bins filled with bolts, bearings, washers, and fittings collected from rides that no longer existed. Broken floodlights waited beside stripped generators. An old carousel horse's cracked fiberglass head leaned against the wall beside a milk crate overflowing with copper wire.

To anyone else it looked like junk, but Marek could have found any piece in the room with his eyes closed.

He stood at the ramshackle workbench, broad shoulders bent beneath the fluorescent strip light overhead, turning a socket wrench one final time before giving the repaired gearbox an experimental spin. The teeth meshed cleanly.

Good enough.

He wiped his hands across an already stained shop rag before tossing it onto the bench. His palms remained black around the creases no matter how often he scrubbed them. Grease had a habit of becoming part of a man after enough time.

The workshop occupied most of the trailer, but the far corner belonged to him. A couple of old chairs rescued from a roadside cleanup was squished beneath a battered flat-screen television mounted crookedly on the wall. The screen was older than most of the performers who wandered through the Carnival these days, but it still worked. So did the game console beneath it, its casing cracked and yellowed, both controllers repaired enough times that fresh plastic gave way to epoxy and tape.

Nearby a little fridge hummed beneath the window. Beside it rested an overflowing ashtray and a coffee mug filled with loose screws instead of coffee.

He rolled a joint with practiced fingers, struck a lighter, and leaned against the workbench while the first lungful settled into his chest. The tension behind his shoulders immediately loosened by degrees, but his thoughts wandered where they shouldn't. To a pendant of bone wrapped in copper and the line of her jaw disappearing in the cowl of his work coat.

He frowned and exhaled sharply through his nose, smoke following.]]>