https://thefirstage.org/forums/ Fri, 01 May 2026 12:06:48 +0000 MyBB https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1951.html Thu, 29 Jan 2026 13:37:25 +0000 Raffe]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1951.html
They’d kept a box of his things, retrieved from Kallisti after he’d left. His whole life’s worth, including his wallet, Nox’s ring, and an unopened Christmas present; but he never went through any of it. The man he was now had no levity left to him, no joy, and no right to darken his old life. Memories of the masquerade – of Noemi’s soft concern, and Kristian’s description of the yawning abyss he saw inside – lurked in his mind sometimes. But it was the discomfort of trying to pretend he was still the same person inside, not the horror of what he might be now. So he rarely looked back.

The night at the carnival was little beyond a blur, and the weeks after that nothing but haze. The trackmarks on his arms were healed, the withdrawal long past. Sobriety had been cold. But Bastian enforced self-discipline with the tenacity of a man who wielded the same weapon inwards, and exacted the same standards in others. He wasn’t kind, but he was thorough. Every moment was accounted for and put to purpose. Exercise. Meditation. Raffe had never picked up a weapon in his life, let alone something so archaic as a sword, but he did as he was instructed and learned that too. It was easier not to question, to live inside a body that worked like a machine. He ate when he was told to, and what he was told to. His body grew lean and strong. When he caught himself in the mirror, which he rarely did, his face was drawn and angular. White ghosted his temples, stark against the burnished curls.

He didn’t seek company. There were other Dominions, but he barely saw them. The Garden housed other men learning how to wield the power too, but he avoided them, and Bastian’s stern eye encouraged a distance. Only Morven crossed it on occasion, not because he was special, but because she did not ever seem to account herself as beholden to the hierarchy and rules. She offered Healing more than once, eyes narrowed like she sensed something broken beneath the surface. But he only declined and moved away.]]>
They’d kept a box of his things, retrieved from Kallisti after he’d left. His whole life’s worth, including his wallet, Nox’s ring, and an unopened Christmas present; but he never went through any of it. The man he was now had no levity left to him, no joy, and no right to darken his old life. Memories of the masquerade – of Noemi’s soft concern, and Kristian’s description of the yawning abyss he saw inside – lurked in his mind sometimes. But it was the discomfort of trying to pretend he was still the same person inside, not the horror of what he might be now. So he rarely looked back.

The night at the carnival was little beyond a blur, and the weeks after that nothing but haze. The trackmarks on his arms were healed, the withdrawal long past. Sobriety had been cold. But Bastian enforced self-discipline with the tenacity of a man who wielded the same weapon inwards, and exacted the same standards in others. He wasn’t kind, but he was thorough. Every moment was accounted for and put to purpose. Exercise. Meditation. Raffe had never picked up a weapon in his life, let alone something so archaic as a sword, but he did as he was instructed and learned that too. It was easier not to question, to live inside a body that worked like a machine. He ate when he was told to, and what he was told to. His body grew lean and strong. When he caught himself in the mirror, which he rarely did, his face was drawn and angular. White ghosted his temples, stark against the burnished curls.

He didn’t seek company. There were other Dominions, but he barely saw them. The Garden housed other men learning how to wield the power too, but he avoided them, and Bastian’s stern eye encouraged a distance. Only Morven crossed it on occasion, not because he was special, but because she did not ever seem to account herself as beholden to the hierarchy and rules. She offered Healing more than once, eyes narrowed like she sensed something broken beneath the surface. But he only declined and moved away.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1888.html Fri, 17 Oct 2025 18:07:08 +0000 Nox]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1888.html  
So. I know I just met with the Ascendancy but I need to request another. I've been in contact with the New Atharim. The Praeceptor of the Reliquiae, the self proclaimed New Regus of the New Atharim wants to meet with you. A new er, with me as his face puppet.

It wasn't long before Nox got a reply.  And not just from anyone, but the Ascendancy himself.
 
Why in the world would I want to meet with the Regus?

He is not the Regus. His name is Eliot Languex, an obsolete son of an Atharim benefactor who like us can channel. He wants to do things differently here in Moscow and wants your sign off. I wasn't planning on telling you this now. But I figured the truth sooner rather than later might gain him that meeting. He's willing to risk his life for the meeting. He's at least serious

And what is this Praeceptor of the Reliquiae?

The presumed leader of a new faction of Atharim I assume. One moving into this new age of gods and men. Working together? I guess.

What do you think he wants?

Well considering he wants me to be the face of this new Atharim, I think he's looking for a more transparent Atharim. Not killing human's outright because he's one of us. He's not like the last Reguses. He's a godling. If he wants me, that means he beleives like I do. He knows of the cases I've taken, and those I've refused. I don't know the full plan, but I think he wants to move the Atharim in a new direction. With your help.

The final message received was not anything of text, but two passes for himself and Eliot Languex to the Garden, with date, time and coordinates.  Lucky them.]]>  
So. I know I just met with the Ascendancy but I need to request another. I've been in contact with the New Atharim. The Praeceptor of the Reliquiae, the self proclaimed New Regus of the New Atharim wants to meet with you. A new er, with me as his face puppet.

It wasn't long before Nox got a reply.  And not just from anyone, but the Ascendancy himself.
 
Why in the world would I want to meet with the Regus?

He is not the Regus. His name is Eliot Languex, an obsolete son of an Atharim benefactor who like us can channel. He wants to do things differently here in Moscow and wants your sign off. I wasn't planning on telling you this now. But I figured the truth sooner rather than later might gain him that meeting. He's willing to risk his life for the meeting. He's at least serious

And what is this Praeceptor of the Reliquiae?

The presumed leader of a new faction of Atharim I assume. One moving into this new age of gods and men. Working together? I guess.

What do you think he wants?

Well considering he wants me to be the face of this new Atharim, I think he's looking for a more transparent Atharim. Not killing human's outright because he's one of us. He's not like the last Reguses. He's a godling. If he wants me, that means he beleives like I do. He knows of the cases I've taken, and those I've refused. I don't know the full plan, but I think he wants to move the Atharim in a new direction. With your help.

The final message received was not anything of text, but two passes for himself and Eliot Languex to the Garden, with date, time and coordinates.  Lucky them.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1597.html Sat, 09 Mar 2024 09:29:02 +0000 Michael Vellas]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1597.html
At the knock at his door, Michael took control of the Power and opened it for his guest. He found doing mundane tasks with the Power to assist in control and swiftness of technique. "Come in," he said, looking up. 

He smiled at the sight of one Jay Carptenter. The man had proven to be competent from what he read, and Nikolai Brandon was not one for idle praise. "Ah, Mr. Carpenter. Or do you prefer Rod of Dominion? What brings you to the Garden?"]]>
At the knock at his door, Michael took control of the Power and opened it for his guest. He found doing mundane tasks with the Power to assist in control and swiftness of technique. "Come in," he said, looking up. 

He smiled at the sight of one Jay Carptenter. The man had proven to be competent from what he read, and Nikolai Brandon was not one for idle praise. "Ah, Mr. Carpenter. Or do you prefer Rod of Dominion? What brings you to the Garden?"]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1595.html Sun, 03 Mar 2024 14:32:10 +0000 Michael Vellas]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1595.html
The great power swelled within Michael as a rising wave that he did not hold back. There was no need in the Garden. His Garden. 

Threads of power spun around the circular chamber that made up his own private training room that was inaccessible by all conventional means. His web consisted of all five types of power, pulsing and fading as he stretched the limits of his abilities before letting the webs fade, incomplete. The eternal struggle for the power was ever present but it had become a familiar one, even comforting. 

Sweat ran down his face and body as he stood in the center of the chamber. It had been hours since he had started sometime just before dawn. That drew a flicker of a smile. While his first students - now *Rods of Dominion* - embraced new power and prestige Michael had not been idle. He allowed the others their chance at glory, even those who hated him. It did not matter. There were things that Michael had wished to explore, free of hunters and of Brandon Nikolai breathing down his neck. Of course he knew he was not left unwatched, however it mattered little. 

Webs of power spun tight around his body, burning with all of his might like a snake coiling around its prey the intensity honed with razor precision. That precision would be much needed for what he had learned of. 

And then the power was dispelled in an instant. 

Michael took a deep breath, satisfied for now. 

He had a part to play, the one they had all come to expect of him.]]>
The great power swelled within Michael as a rising wave that he did not hold back. There was no need in the Garden. His Garden. 

Threads of power spun around the circular chamber that made up his own private training room that was inaccessible by all conventional means. His web consisted of all five types of power, pulsing and fading as he stretched the limits of his abilities before letting the webs fade, incomplete. The eternal struggle for the power was ever present but it had become a familiar one, even comforting. 

Sweat ran down his face and body as he stood in the center of the chamber. It had been hours since he had started sometime just before dawn. That drew a flicker of a smile. While his first students - now *Rods of Dominion* - embraced new power and prestige Michael had not been idle. He allowed the others their chance at glory, even those who hated him. It did not matter. There were things that Michael had wished to explore, free of hunters and of Brandon Nikolai breathing down his neck. Of course he knew he was not left unwatched, however it mattered little. 

Webs of power spun tight around his body, burning with all of his might like a snake coiling around its prey the intensity honed with razor precision. That precision would be much needed for what he had learned of. 

And then the power was dispelled in an instant. 

Michael took a deep breath, satisfied for now. 

He had a part to play, the one they had all come to expect of him.]]>