https://thefirstage.org/forums/ Thu, 06 Aug 2026 02:25:10 +0000 MyBB 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.]]> 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.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1978.html Sun, 05 Jul 2026 23:22:43 +0000 Aine]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1978.html Aine O’Carra

Age 23

Origin Irish

Occupation Graduate student, Studio Arts, Moscow University

Psychological Description - Aine can be identified as neurodivergent easily.  She notices patterns quickly, she loves bright colors and patterns, and when she comes across an idea she likes, she latches on almost immediately.  She is friendly with a sometimes sarcastic sense of humor, and trying her best to make connections in a new place.  When her surroundings or even her own mind get too overwhelming, her friendly mask can slip, and she shuts down quickly.

Physical Description Aine is 5’10” tall with long dark red hair and brown eyes.

Powers & Supernatural powers Channeler, Dreamwalker

Strength 10

Potential Strength 27

Experience level  Adept

Reborn god Boann (Irish)

Biography

Aine lived most of her life in Ireland with her small family.  Her parents owned a successful business, a popular cafe in Carbury.  She lived a charmed life, able to explore as she wished with neighbors who loved her and extended family nearby.  She was an only child, but she found things to keep her occupied, like creating things.  Be it painting, drawing, or just arranging random objects in ways she found interesting, her mind found patterns where other children might not.  As she grew, her small group of friends fed on each other’s interests and made an eclectic circle.


When Aine was thirteen, she found herself walking toward River Boyne.  She’d been there before, but somehow, the girl felt the need to go that day.  It was a thought that circled her mind until it was entertained.  She was used to thoughts like those, so she went.  She walked to the river, wondering what it was that pulled her there.  Sitting close to the water, she tucked her legs under her and decided to just be still.  It was peaceful, after all…until it wasn’t.  After a few minutes of letting her mind wander, Aine felt something take hold of her.  It felt like a rush of water crashing into her, though she was dry and safe in the same spot.  It was terrifying and powerful, but it also felt like it was coming…from her somehow.  Floundering in the feeling, she reached out and grabbed something.  There was a thread that she felt was coming from the power she held.  


Aine did what she always did and experimented with this new ability, dipping it into the river, through the grass, just holding it…  She was too afraid to try much more and too afraid to move.  She was beginning to feel tired until her grandmother came upon her.  Her Nan sat next to her and saw that Aine was shaking and pale from her mysterious work.  She reassured Aine and guided her through the process of letting the power go.  Nan was there when she got sick afterwards as well, and when she recovered, she taught her how to use her ability in secret, explaining that her best friend had died from mishandling it long ago.


She had as many lessons with Nan as she could as she grew up.  The learning was slow going, and she couldn’t do anything without being around running water for a long time.  What finally broke her out of that was chasing the family dog, Bruno, who was running after a rabbit and right toward the road. Aine embraced the power as she was taught and grabbed a bit of air, and tugged her dog onto the ground, as if he had stumbled before he reached the road.  It wasn’t until she was walking him back home, giving him a stern lecture, that she realized what had happened.  


That night, she had the most vivid dream she ever had in her life.  She and another dog, but one she recognized as her own, were running for their lives.  Something loud and looming was just behind them.  It sounded like rushing water.  Splashes of it would taunt them as they ran.  She risked a look behind her, and a thick wall of water was rising up from a well, hunting her down.  Aine woke up soon after, her hair drenched, but not from sweat.  The legend of Boann, the goddess the River Boyne was named after, was well known, and that was its conclusion.  But why did she dream so vividly about it?  


Aine received many of her own stern lectures from Nan that she didn’t normally receive, but she knew they were for her safety, and those around her.  She and Nan both knew that her abilities were safe with knowledge and control, but most everyone else did not.  There were people who hunted people like them, and would hurt their loved ones as well.


When Aine finished her university years, she received an offer to study in Moscow as a graduate student.  Her heart soared, and her family celebrated with her.  This was an amazing opportunity.  After the initial happiness died down, she went to her Nan in private to ask if she had learned enough from her to leave on her own.  Her Nan explained that Aine had been difficult to teach, because she was stronger than Nan, but that she had learned enough not to hurt herself or anyone else.  She was an adult now and could use her own discernment.  She still made Aine promise to keep in good contact, though.


With that promise in mind, Aine accepted the offer to study Studio Arts at Moscow University.  Moscow was such a big change to the small town she was from, and the university was so much bigger than she was anticipating, but she took each change day by day.  She did what she always did, found patterns and followed them.]]> Aine O’Carra

Age 23

Origin Irish

Occupation Graduate student, Studio Arts, Moscow University

Psychological Description - Aine can be identified as neurodivergent easily.  She notices patterns quickly, she loves bright colors and patterns, and when she comes across an idea she likes, she latches on almost immediately.  She is friendly with a sometimes sarcastic sense of humor, and trying her best to make connections in a new place.  When her surroundings or even her own mind get too overwhelming, her friendly mask can slip, and she shuts down quickly.

Physical Description Aine is 5’10” tall with long dark red hair and brown eyes.

Powers & Supernatural powers Channeler, Dreamwalker

Strength 10

Potential Strength 27

Experience level  Adept

Reborn god Boann (Irish)

Biography

Aine lived most of her life in Ireland with her small family.  Her parents owned a successful business, a popular cafe in Carbury.  She lived a charmed life, able to explore as she wished with neighbors who loved her and extended family nearby.  She was an only child, but she found things to keep her occupied, like creating things.  Be it painting, drawing, or just arranging random objects in ways she found interesting, her mind found patterns where other children might not.  As she grew, her small group of friends fed on each other’s interests and made an eclectic circle.


When Aine was thirteen, she found herself walking toward River Boyne.  She’d been there before, but somehow, the girl felt the need to go that day.  It was a thought that circled her mind until it was entertained.  She was used to thoughts like those, so she went.  She walked to the river, wondering what it was that pulled her there.  Sitting close to the water, she tucked her legs under her and decided to just be still.  It was peaceful, after all…until it wasn’t.  After a few minutes of letting her mind wander, Aine felt something take hold of her.  It felt like a rush of water crashing into her, though she was dry and safe in the same spot.  It was terrifying and powerful, but it also felt like it was coming…from her somehow.  Floundering in the feeling, she reached out and grabbed something.  There was a thread that she felt was coming from the power she held.  


Aine did what she always did and experimented with this new ability, dipping it into the river, through the grass, just holding it…  She was too afraid to try much more and too afraid to move.  She was beginning to feel tired until her grandmother came upon her.  Her Nan sat next to her and saw that Aine was shaking and pale from her mysterious work.  She reassured Aine and guided her through the process of letting the power go.  Nan was there when she got sick afterwards as well, and when she recovered, she taught her how to use her ability in secret, explaining that her best friend had died from mishandling it long ago.


She had as many lessons with Nan as she could as she grew up.  The learning was slow going, and she couldn’t do anything without being around running water for a long time.  What finally broke her out of that was chasing the family dog, Bruno, who was running after a rabbit and right toward the road. Aine embraced the power as she was taught and grabbed a bit of air, and tugged her dog onto the ground, as if he had stumbled before he reached the road.  It wasn’t until she was walking him back home, giving him a stern lecture, that she realized what had happened.  


That night, she had the most vivid dream she ever had in her life.  She and another dog, but one she recognized as her own, were running for their lives.  Something loud and looming was just behind them.  It sounded like rushing water.  Splashes of it would taunt them as they ran.  She risked a look behind her, and a thick wall of water was rising up from a well, hunting her down.  Aine woke up soon after, her hair drenched, but not from sweat.  The legend of Boann, the goddess the River Boyne was named after, was well known, and that was its conclusion.  But why did she dream so vividly about it?  


Aine received many of her own stern lectures from Nan that she didn’t normally receive, but she knew they were for her safety, and those around her.  She and Nan both knew that her abilities were safe with knowledge and control, but most everyone else did not.  There were people who hunted people like them, and would hurt their loved ones as well.


When Aine finished her university years, she received an offer to study in Moscow as a graduate student.  Her heart soared, and her family celebrated with her.  This was an amazing opportunity.  After the initial happiness died down, she went to her Nan in private to ask if she had learned enough from her to leave on her own.  Her Nan explained that Aine had been difficult to teach, because she was stronger than Nan, but that she had learned enough not to hurt herself or anyone else.  She was an adult now and could use her own discernment.  She still made Aine promise to keep in good contact, though.


With that promise in mind, Aine accepted the offer to study Studio Arts at Moscow University.  Moscow was such a big change to the small town she was from, and the university was so much bigger than she was anticipating, but she took each change day by day.  She did what she always did, found patterns and followed them.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1977.html Sat, 23 May 2026 23:22:51 +0000 Anita]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1977.html
It took Anita a few moments after waking to remember where she was. The room was completely unfamiliar to her. The bed itself was comfortable and she was covered in a blanket. She sate up and then remembered. The snow storm - an insane amount of emergency calls - finding Penny in her collapsed house - Penny saving their lives - and finally, her complete collapse. 

Anita wiped the sleep from her eyes. She had no idea how long she had slept, but it had to have been a bit. She felt rested for the first time in days, and emotionally was feeling alright too. 

Penny. That poor girl was an orphan now. Penny herself had confirmed it. Anita was struck with a moment of urgency. She had to call Cor. Not only to talk about Penny, but also to talk about the kids that Hayden had called her about. Anita took a deep breath and called Cor. 

Cor answered almost immediately. ”Anita, how are you feeling?” he asked. 

She smiled a bit. ”A lot better. Feeling rested and not so stressed.”

”Ivan is onsite. I’m not letting you come back to duty until he says.”

Her smile widened. ”I know - that’s not why I’m calling. It’s about the girl. The patient we brought her,” Anita’s smile faded as she got serious. Cor didn’t interrupt. ”She’s an orphan now. Confirmed by her. Says she has a dad, but doesn’t know him. Will take awhile to find that information. She’ll at the very least need to go somewhere. And Cor - I just can’t stand the idea of her going to a state orphanage.”

The line was silent for a bit as Cor put together what her knew or thought he knew. ”You must have something in mind to ask me this.”

Anita nodded even though Cor couldn’t see her. ”Guy I know has a place for people like her. An orphanage of sorts, but more for everyone - called Second Chances. I really think it would be the best fit for her.”

Cor sighed. ”My power is very limited in such things…SOP’s* you know.” Anita opened her mouth to interrupt, but he continued before she could. ”But these are unprecedented times. I’m doubting, unfortunately that she’s alone in this. There is going to be a back log and we can’t wait for the state to get its shit together. She’ll need a place to go, we can’t keep her.” Anita smiled. That was the official story. But she read the subtext. He’d make it happen. ”I’ll see what I can do.”

”Thanks, Cor. There’s something else too. In a similar category. Friend has two girls - twins. He wanted to get in touch with CPS about them. Orphans as well. Pretty heavy trauma case. Again - second chances would be best for them. I can give you the information to contact him. Can you see if you can do anything.”

She heard him chuckle. ”Never thought I’d have this conversation with you. Yeah - send me his information and I’ll touch base. See what I can do. Girl you’re with - you got a name.”

”Penny - I mean Penelope. Penelope Zemlov. The contact for the other kids is Hayden Sebastian.” 

”Okay - I’ll get things moving and touch base with Hayden. Now check in with Ivan - want to make sure you’re okay.”

She chuckled. ”Will do, sir. Thanks Cor, you’re the best.”

They bid their goodbyes and Anita hung up. Cor would come through. He always had before. Hopefully soon she’d get confirmation, and she could let Penny know what was going on. Anita hoped she was okay. She needed a shower and then she’d find Ivan and get cleared for duty again. Then it was time to take care of things here.]]>
It took Anita a few moments after waking to remember where she was. The room was completely unfamiliar to her. The bed itself was comfortable and she was covered in a blanket. She sate up and then remembered. The snow storm - an insane amount of emergency calls - finding Penny in her collapsed house - Penny saving their lives - and finally, her complete collapse. 

Anita wiped the sleep from her eyes. She had no idea how long she had slept, but it had to have been a bit. She felt rested for the first time in days, and emotionally was feeling alright too. 

Penny. That poor girl was an orphan now. Penny herself had confirmed it. Anita was struck with a moment of urgency. She had to call Cor. Not only to talk about Penny, but also to talk about the kids that Hayden had called her about. Anita took a deep breath and called Cor. 

Cor answered almost immediately. ”Anita, how are you feeling?” he asked. 

She smiled a bit. ”A lot better. Feeling rested and not so stressed.”

”Ivan is onsite. I’m not letting you come back to duty until he says.”

Her smile widened. ”I know - that’s not why I’m calling. It’s about the girl. The patient we brought her,” Anita’s smile faded as she got serious. Cor didn’t interrupt. ”She’s an orphan now. Confirmed by her. Says she has a dad, but doesn’t know him. Will take awhile to find that information. She’ll at the very least need to go somewhere. And Cor - I just can’t stand the idea of her going to a state orphanage.”

The line was silent for a bit as Cor put together what her knew or thought he knew. ”You must have something in mind to ask me this.”

Anita nodded even though Cor couldn’t see her. ”Guy I know has a place for people like her. An orphanage of sorts, but more for everyone - called Second Chances. I really think it would be the best fit for her.”

Cor sighed. ”My power is very limited in such things…SOP’s* you know.” Anita opened her mouth to interrupt, but he continued before she could. ”But these are unprecedented times. I’m doubting, unfortunately that she’s alone in this. There is going to be a back log and we can’t wait for the state to get its shit together. She’ll need a place to go, we can’t keep her.” Anita smiled. That was the official story. But she read the subtext. He’d make it happen. ”I’ll see what I can do.”

”Thanks, Cor. There’s something else too. In a similar category. Friend has two girls - twins. He wanted to get in touch with CPS about them. Orphans as well. Pretty heavy trauma case. Again - second chances would be best for them. I can give you the information to contact him. Can you see if you can do anything.”

She heard him chuckle. ”Never thought I’d have this conversation with you. Yeah - send me his information and I’ll touch base. See what I can do. Girl you’re with - you got a name.”

”Penny - I mean Penelope. Penelope Zemlov. The contact for the other kids is Hayden Sebastian.” 

”Okay - I’ll get things moving and touch base with Hayden. Now check in with Ivan - want to make sure you’re okay.”

She chuckled. ”Will do, sir. Thanks Cor, you’re the best.”

They bid their goodbyes and Anita hung up. Cor would come through. He always had before. Hopefully soon she’d get confirmation, and she could let Penny know what was going on. Anita hoped she was okay. She needed a shower and then she’d find Ivan and get cleared for duty again. Then it was time to take care of things here.]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1976.html Thu, 16 Apr 2026 02:04:37 +0000 Alistair Bishop]]> https://thefirstage.org/forums/thread-1976.html
In Columbus, quiet meant something had gone wrong. Quiet was the moment before the door came in, or the bar went dark, or the ref stopped counting. Quiet was something you filled fast, before it filled you.

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

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

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

Still alive. That has to count for something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still alive. That has to count for something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After they hung up, Marianna went very still.

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

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

“Have we been here before?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stopped lighting it.

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

She lit the candle.

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

She blew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blew.

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After they hung up, Marianna went very still.

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

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

“Have we been here before?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stopped lighting it.

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

She lit the candle.

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

She blew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blew.

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

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

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


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

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

Origin: Rivington Folly, England; Moscow

Occupation: Aspiring Novelist

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

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

Supernatural Powers: Vidient - VIII: The Flame

Reborn God: Eurydice

---

A Special Child

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

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

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

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

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

Relationship with Lucien

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

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

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

Learning to Understand Her Ability

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

Academics

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

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

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

Quinn's Literary Style

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

Her works blend:

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

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

Published Works

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

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

Origin: Rivington Folly, England; Moscow

Occupation: Aspiring Novelist

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

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

Supernatural Powers: Vidient - VIII: The Flame

Reborn God: Eurydice

---

A Special Child

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

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

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

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

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

Relationship with Lucien

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

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

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

Learning to Understand Her Ability

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

Academics

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

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

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

Quinn's Literary Style

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

Her works blend:

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

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

Published Works

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the spores.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Control.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the spores.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Control.

Until then, he had to meet personally with Ephraim and explain everything man to man.]]>