MOVE HAD ISSUES. MORE TO COME BUT FOR NOW SITE IS BACK OPEN FOR POSTING WE ARE IN THE PROCESS OF SETTING UP A NEW SERVER LOCATION FOR THE SITE- EXCITING TIMES!!! ~ZEPH
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ALSO, MASQUERADE WILL BE UPDATED FROM HALLOWEEN TO WINTER WONDERLAND SINCE DIDN'T REALLY GET STARTED YET WILL UPDATE THREAD TONIGHT.
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RISE OF THE BLOOD MOON EVENT - 'The Calm Before the Storm' 4:00 PM. November 11th, 2019. Veteran’s Day. Full Moon. Muldoon’s Irish Pub & Restaurant, 3rd Avenue (between 43rd and 44th), Midtown, Manhattan. Slate had been frequenting Muldoon’s for years. Quaint low lit pubs with that authentic Irish ambience were hard to come by and so their clientele tended to stick. The lack of cops made it all the more attractive, the rogue detective preferring not to rub shoulders with his fellow boys in blue at the end of the day. He didn’t have much in common. Tucked in a corner booth, Slate took note of the pictures and memorabilia on the shelf above him. The place was littered with Irish mementos and old photographs of Irish icons and ancestors of the owners. He usually sat at the bar and had never seen these two characters before, one man evidently a veteran. Before taking a swig of his lager he raised his pint, tipping it to the unknown soldier out of respect. It was Veteran’s day after all, and as a good a reason as any other to partake in a drink or two. [npc]Did you order?[/npc] Inquired the young woman returning to the table, sliding into the corner beside the much larger man. [slate]Steak right?[/slate] He confirmed. [npc]Salmon![/npc] The girl groaned, gasping at the mishap. She couldn’t possibly eat red meat but as a mischievous grin spread across the man’s face it became obvious he was only feigning the mix-up. [slate]Just kidding. Wouldn’t want to risk you turning or anything.[/slate] [npc]Very funny.[/npc] She smiled, rolling large, dark lashed eyes seductively at the handsome musician. [npc]You shouldn’t joke about things like that.[/npc] She playfully scolded, but there was a superstitious truth to her words. It was the first full moon of the ‘Turn’ and people were still getting used to venturing out on these nights. The reality of lycanthropes and their change dictated by a lunar influence had struck horror in the populace. For years, people cowered behind locked doors, fearing a were-beast to come a’ knocking. Incidents were few and even rare were random attacks. In Slate’s experience most assaults committed by were-beasts were purposely directed toward individuals of a criminal nature. Still, the illusion of security was required. The pub’s front windows and door were guarded by heavy bars. Just in case. [npc]Aren’t you a little worried? You know, I never go out on these nights. I think this is the first time in five years.[/npc] Slate shook his head and shrugged. [slate]Don’t think about it much. You’re just as likely to run into something just as monstrous any night of the week.[/slate] [npc]Gee. Thanks for that. I may never go out again.[/npc] She laughed while pulling a thinly rolled joint out of a cigarette case. Igniting the tip, the girl took a pull and passed the favour to Slate, but he politely refused and sparked up one of his cigarillos instead. [slate]Another Harp.[/slate] He requested of a passing server, gesturing to his quarter full glass. [slate]So what d’ya do, Megan?[/slate] The musician finally asked. [npc]I’m in my third year, still not sure what I want to do.[/npc] She admitted, her knee accidentally grazing his beneath the table. [npc]You?[/npc] [slate]I’m doing it.[/slate] Slate lied, purposely hiding the fact that he was a cop. Musicians were far more attractive.
Wednesday, November 9th, 2019. The soft drab glow of the November morning cast it’s paler upon the Ballentine’s eastern face. The gothic stone work, muddy brown bricks and the statuesque form of a tall man in his late twenties, ashen in the grey of the overcast sky. He stood stolid between the open french doors upon the ninth floor balcony, the cool crisp air chilling the high ceilinged bedroom. The man, protected only by the thin fabric of his silk dress shirt seemed unaffected by the cold, almost enjoying the cool embrace of the winter wind pressing the white garment against his skin. Brilliant blue eyes surveyed Amsterdam Avenue below as Atticus sipped from a white mug, a chocolaty protein concoction. He recalled the winter of the last year; the November blizzard that had paralyzed the city. He remembered it well, etched in mind by the mysteries of the Menhir unraveled... but that was another tale, for another time. As much as he preferred his work at the Treatment Facility, Atticus always enjoyed his time in Omenwich. Celebrating All Hallows Eve and the Day of the Dead at the Oak & Henge was a much needed diversion. Time at the Foundation Building had been needed as well, re-familiarizing himself with policies often removed from his usual routines on Plum Island. Two weeks later, however, and he was ready to fall back into old habits. That, and though he tried to deny it, he missed one person in particular. Their conversations, the way she tossed her long flowing hair to the side. He had to remind himself that she was his boss, but more importantly, age was always a factor he had to consider. Locking the door behind him, the distorted image of the blue grey suit reflected in the brass numbers, nine-zero-five, as Atticus made his way to the stairwell. A mere nine floor descent, but even if it were ninety, he’d still consider it. He hated elevators. The close quarters, the obligation of social niceties. Atticus always felt ambushed. Forced to engage in trivial conversations with neighbours he barely knew and being a sporadic fixture in the apartment the curiosities were endless. The stairs provided solitude and some much needed exercise, not to mention he’d always admired the gothic style of the granite stairwell. Emerging through the door of the underground parking garage Atticus’ long strides carried him through the lot. [npc]Top o’the morning to ya.[/npc] Greeted an elderly man with a fine British accent. He was standing on a step ladder and inspecting a valve of what appeared to be the emergency sprinkler system. Atticus smiled and nodded. [atticus]Mr. Kripp.[/atticus] Walter Kripp, the Ballantine’s caretaker was a pleasant man. Atticus always enjoyed speaking with the Englishman whom reminded him a little of his friend, Angus O’Leary, the owner of the Henge. Only despite his apparent age the man’s hair had remained thick and dark, looking every bit the part of a hair-piece though it was all natural. [npc]Remember lad. The gates to the garage close early tomorrow night.[/npc] Mr. Kripp reminded him. Atticus had to pause a moment until he absent-mindedly recalled, [atticus]Oh, that’s right. The full moon.[/atticus] Mr. Kripp shot him back a worrisome look before carrying on with his tinkering. He was among those who maintained precautions during the time of were-beasts, even though incidents were far and few between these days. Atticus respected the caution but he himself knew better than to given into fear. Antivirals were highly effective and the frequency of Lycanthropes had significantly dropped over the years. [atticus]I’ll remember. Thanks.[/atticus] Atticus climbed into his silver SUV and proceeded out of the garage, turning south onto Amsterdam. He meandered his way through the traffic while listening to one of his favourite podcasts, a couple of conspiracy theorists dissecting the world of hidden factions. It was very amusing. Three-quarters of an hour later he was at Cooper Union square, the prestigious location of the Ward Foundation — Pharos’ New York headquarters. The large red brick building was a pristine landmark amidst cold grey of glass and steel. A beacon of preservation, one might say. Atticus pulled into the private lot across the street, rolled down his window and placed his thumb on the scanner. A heavy metal door slid up, the SUV pulled through and paused again at a guard station where he produced his identification. With a nod, the guard raised the typical bar gate and Atticus proceeded to his parking space. The parkade was fully enclosed, the security tight. This was because the agents proceeded into the Ward Foundation via an underground passage connecting it to the parkade. The main entrance of the Foundation building was for the public. A necessary facade. Yet again, Atticus placed his thumb on a scanner and one of three doors slid open revealing the long brightly lit shaft beyond. There were moving moving sidewalks on either side of the large tunnel but he preferred to walk. A brisk stroll down the center of the highly polished white marble floor, to the elevator that he would take to the fifth floor. Stepping out of the elevator, it’s ultra modern interior was a stark contrast to the predominantly 1900’s style architecture of the building. The furnishings, the decor, brought to life that bygone era. With the exception of modern technology one might have felt as if they were time travelling. The illusion, however, broke down once one entered one of the labs. Such was Atticus’ world but this morning he was intercepted by Lead Agent, Connor MacBride. [npc]Agent Gale, a word if I may.[/npc] Requested the Irishman. He was a youthful forty-something, his hair worn longer reflecting his free-spirited attitude. He wore a pale grey suit that rivalled Atticus’ in style and quality and like the larger man, MacBride never wore a tie. Near to his office, the Lead Agent lead Atticus though his door and beckoned him sit in one of the leather chairs before a cluttered desk. [npc]Stone’s away.[/npc] He began, almost apologetically. He was referring to Director Stone Ward, his cousin. Atticus noted that Stone was consistently ‘away’ every month, but gave it no mind. Pharos was an extensive organization and he imagined his responsibilities went far beyond that of the New York office. [npc]I’m up to m’ arse in paperwork as y’ can see and I’m in need of an agent with grade six clearance.[/npc] Atticus nodded. The agents within the foundation generally maxed out at level 3 and those beyond were usually tasked with other assignments, like himself. [npc]I know you’re busy, but I’d be indebted to ya if you could take on an apprentice for me.[/npc] Atticus nodded once more, the lack of enthusiasm noted by the senior agent. Connor was aware of the project that Atticus had been tasked with, a comprehensive cataloguing of rather unique, genetic materials. It was time consuming and methodical but like his assignment, he felt that Agent Gale was uniquely suited for this trainee. [npc]Great. His name is, ‘Deek’, ‘Endeek’…[/npc] Hands filtered through the papers on his desk until he found the agent’s profile, [npc]Endika Ofeo.[/npc] He handed the paper to Atticus. [atticus]Anthropology.[/atticus] Atticus read with piqued interest, [atticus]Theology.[/atticus] Less so, but as he read further the extent and diversity of the man’s religious study warranted a more approving nod. [atticus]Says here, he was trained at ARMA.[/atticus] Atticus noted, concluding the nature of his abilities. A magus. Pharos had been trying to recruit more agents of a magical nature. After all, it was the way of the future. Science and magic were slowly converging and one day, they’d be one in the same. To Atticus’ horror. [atticus]When should I expect him?[/atticus] Atticus inquired, assuming the afternoon since MacBride couldn’t have possibly known whether or not he could have taken on an apprentice at this time. Agent MacBride glanced at his wristwatch, [npc]Oh, he should be here any moment now.[/npc] His assistant, Ryan at the front desk, had already been instructed to ferry the man into the office upon his arrival. Tight spaces, no where to turn. An ambush. Atticus hated them. @Endika Ofeo
SUSPECTED OUTBREAK January 26, 2019 Last night, Jan. 25, 2019, the NY Downtown Hospital initiated a quarantine lockdown procedure. Explosive blasts breached the barriers and a stand off between law enforcement and an unknown militant group ensued. NYPD and CDC were on the scene in response to a suspected outbreak of a mutated strain of the ‘m-virus’. Infections of the ‘super-viruses’ continue to plague our world. Scientists are ever striving to increase the window of their effectives but as of yet people only have 24 hours to receive the appropriate antidote after they contract a super-virus. The infected individual, whose name hasn’t been released, was reported to have had no response to typical treatment and lockdown procedures to protect the public from a possible contagion was initiated. Hospital administration reported that proper protocol was followed and the infected individual was properly contained. They and the CDC assure the public that rumours of an airborne variety of the morteximius virus were greatly exaggerated. As for the unknown gunmen, the NYPD are not commenting, except to say that their actions were purely a terrorist act. EMERGENCY QUARANTINE