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May, 2010... Fantasy became reality. Worlds overlay for the briefest moment. Outworlders became stranded on earth as more than half the human populace vanished. Our World, our universe, was transformed.

Fiction is now reality. Humans and those now bound to this world will either learn to coexist, or battle for supremecy.

JUNE 13, 2019 - Family emergency  took a bad turn so had to stay away but now things are finally calming down. Hope to get going again shortly. Thanks for understanding. ~ZEPH

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Found 10 results

  1. Rhome Del Santo

    Let the Master Answer

    Just after Dark February 11, 2021 Alley near the old Western Union building Blood was hot. So was his breath. As it quivered in and out of his chest, in came the frigid air… out came the anger of a devil. A thousand devils. Cerberus. Hell, Satan himself; in every tradition, in every faith, every level of purgatory and hell tangled tightly into a frayed knot that was breaking free. He was a ghost whose presence would reverberate across the globe, the building pressure finally bubbling to a volcanic tirade, one small droplet of blood from his finger splashing on the broken asphalt. Thera. Santarini. Vesuvius, the tales from his childhood, his home and corner of the world. A man that had played as a boy in what was left of dormant volcanic caves a harbinger of what would inevitably come when the world broke apart and skinned the callus from a man that had been made into something unthinkable. A man that needed to cleanse the world of the evil that created him. He finally blinked, lifting a palm to look at the red peppering his fingers that everyone always assumed was so bright. It wasn’t. Hot, sticky… leaving yellowish smears as it ran from skin and dried. The assassin was always so clean, meticulous, humane. This was just, just brutal. Hand was shaking. He’d never stayed, never longer than to whisper a gentle last rite over those that had been marked and he’d taken without question. That was a lifetime ago, a life that required of him total conformity and discretion. Now, one last cough from his target curdled stringy blood from the man’s lips, then crackled wheezing as he watched him die. It had been ragged, vicious, unrefined and effectively violent. Water magus unprepared for a magus that didn't need his power to kill. The same bloody fingers curled tightly into a fist, a signet ring so fragile against his burgeoning heat on cue threatening to cave entirely molten as he pressed it against the side of the man’s throat… leaving the brand of the Order in a scalded bubble of flesh. A conundrum for the law that would find the murdered Order magus; the third in as many weeks. Credentials were always left scattered over the magus' chest. The Order signet branded into skin above a throat so deeply cut it was almost severed to the spine. Starting with the "army", the foot soldiers, to flush the generals out of their offices and onto the streets. Out of the Long Lines and into his fire. For a moment, his soul felt at peace until the vitriolic rush of native tongue hissed forth... È la fonte della mia energia e il mio legame con tutti coloro che così toccato Noise woke his senses from the rush of justice, the ghost in the gray hoodie moving suddenly with the agility of a gymnast to kick off a dumpster and catch the bottom of a fire escape- the vertical leap almost impossible, but made with the ease of a trained killer. Up the fire escape, to disappear onto the rooftops and into the urban tangle that was New York. This was only the beginning... ((Translation/Italian- the third line of the Oath of the Order of Light; "It is the source of my power, and my bond to all those so touched."))
  2. Matteo Carducci

    Nighttime is Playtime

    Feb 1, 2020 6pm (currently Bakkhos only) Fingers drummed on the dark bar. Cool gaze watched the sun begin to sink out the windows of the club. Gaspari had put him in charge of the club while the head of Bakkhos was travelling to Italy and then Spain to meet with the Family there and discuss how to increase their trading routes in this still challenged world. The steel doors were still closed to the public, the red velvet rope outside lonely and unmanned. It was early yet. Bakkhos only opened at 9pm. The soft click of heels behind him betrayed the beginning of staff arriving through the private entrance. NPC: "Matty!" Trish. The squeal gave her away before the small hands wrapped around his waist from behind, slinking under the gray blazer to tickle over the deep wine button up, following the buttons until they opened at his chest. Her fingers snaked inside the silky shirt for a feel of the dark hair and to play with the gold chain hanging there before his large grip caught the invaders. Head turned and dipped to catch the ruby lips behind his shoulder only briefly. 'ey Trish. Hand lightly pushed her hands down and untangled from his torso. NPC: "Whatcha doin' here?" I'm in charge while Gaspari is away of course.... so get yer pretty tail off and into uniform.. Hand swatted the thick meat of her ass sending her off to the back with a playful yelp. Waitresses were always in slinky black cocktail dresses at Bakkhos, even when serving those that decided to slink into the pools……and he had slept with half of them. Smirk slid his lips as he moved around the bar and poured himself a lowball of straight scotch. They had a couple hours before the door was opened to the public for the first time since the Blood Moon fiasco three months ago. The club hadn't suffered any damage but the lower portions of the hotel had. Because the club could be locked down like a steel trap, they used it instead as headquarters while they rebuilt and waited to see if the sky would continue to "fall". Between the unnatural Blood Moon events and the anti-outworlder sentiment growing around the world it was collectively decided that Satyr Stadium was on hold for the time being. Instead, Gaspari was trusting his Senior Capo to run the prized Bakkhos club and their hotel while the head of the Family was jet setting around the world and growing their connections. It was good for the Family, but the Capo wished Gaspari would take more muscle when he went. Gray was good and all, but the Family head should have dozens with him, not a team of ten. He had lost that argument however, so he was left behind to run the business. In and of itself, it was a huge honor. Dark eyes lifted at the heavy steps coming through the private entrance. 'ey Joey….. The young lycanthrope smiled at him as he walked over. NPC: "Hey Boss…. you're here early." Nod came as the scotch slid smooth down his throat before he pulled the glass away. Ya… wanted to be sure we were ready…. checking security cams etcetera. Joey unbuttoned his blazer to sit on the leather stool on the other side as he nodded. NPC: "I made sure we have some extra muscle tonight since we haven't been open in a while and aint sure if we gonna see just the regulars or some wild cards. Bringing in all seven bouncers and three on cams." The Capo nodded as he finished his scotch and set the glass in the bucket under the bar. Ari would be pissed there were dirty glasses before they even opened but he would face her fury. Another glance outside confirmed it would be a brisk but clear night. A good night to reopen Bakkhos and help the upper echelon find a playful norm once more.
  3. October 27 Stench putrefied the air as she walked over the carcasses stacked thick in the cargo hull. Unlike her partner who had been forced to scramble back outside for some fresh air, she was blessed with senses that could pick and choose their focus. At the moment her sense of smell was turned off as much as she possibly could, letting her eyes focus where the large flashlight highlighted and studying the scene. Even so, the smell was stomach turning. The Anda was a small cargo ship, the windowless belly of it meant for metal cargo containers not the decimated human cargo she now picked her way over. She was up to forty bodies and the count was still rising. A week ago the harbor master had been asked to let the small cargo vessel dock a couple days while they got resupplied. The captain had paid cash and then never came back. When the harbor master decided to step on board this morning he was struck by the scent of death and instantly knew he had a problem. Which was why she was here, the basic blues that had come to investigate couldn’t handle the extreme nature of the loss of life. It was a pit, a black hole of stagnant air. The door had been padlocked shut from the outside leaving the victims trapped with little air and no food or water. From the decay she suspected they hadn't made the trip across the ocean, dying miserably somewhere along the way. Some were stacked against the far wall, likely by those that were still alive and trying not to wallow in rotting flesh. Death had come in waves. She pitied the souls that had been the last to go. They had been refugees.. she was sure of it. Skeletal remains of horns, wings, even tails peppered the more human looking dead. If she had to bet, they were all outworlders who had latched onto some swindlers promise to get out of Europe. It wasn’t the first signs that the registration violence was making its way to their shores. Boots carefully picked her way back to the single steel door, trotting up the stairs to the rusty deck to take a deep breath of fresher air, nostrils starving for something other than the oppression of death. Npc:…I've never seen anything like it Lance's voice quaked as her cool expression flicked to him. She didn’t rattle. Its what made her so good at her job. There is likely more but I got a count of fifty nine…. they are stacked at the back so hard to get a full count till we start pulling them out. Eyes flicked to the harbor master, poor guy was pacing along the dock unwilling to come close to the vessel. I suspect all outworlders… likely promised a better life here… "immigrants" coming to the "new world"…. probably paid a small fortune to end up in a metal coffin. Npc: Fuck…. Ya….that about sums it up. Going to need his full statement.. don't trust the blues to get this one right. Npc:.... sure... am on it He pulled out his notepad and trotted down the plank to the dock below, thankful to be off the floating cemetery.
  4. Durion Caranthir

    Birth of the Underground Network

    Unclothed foot slapped down on the bare ass with enough force to leave a red blush on the nearly white flesh. You are still in my bed. Yawn expanded his lips as the elf's bare feet padded towards the open double doors that led to his bathroom. The cream silk on the bed moved, a cerulean cascade of curls emerging from the sheets to peek gray eyes up after the man as he pulled the ebony locks through his hands to one side, exposing the sinewy muscled back and dimpled cheeks. The fae might have been horribly insulted but instead the smile lit the corners of her lips before she stretched and wormed her way out of the sheets. Truth was, as insolent and dismissive a playboy as he was in the morning, the Lord of Megildur was one hell of an attentive lover in the evening. It was not the first time she had been kicked out of his bed in the morning, it wouldn’t be the last, and she was far from the only woman that shared the dismissal fate. Passing through the carved doors his dark hair shimmered with the morning sunshine as it glittered down through the glass ceiling that defied gravity, the limbs he had architected folding in beautiful sinews across the expanse to nestle the glass between the branches. Expertly cradled against the mountainside, his shower was a natural waterfall that fell through a breach in the glass ceiling. It was frigid in the winters, cold in the summers, and nirvana for the elf that was a part of nature more than the concrete jungles of man. As he stood hip deep in the stream, water cascading over his head, the sensitive ears listened to the fae vacate his bed, her lyrical hum wandering all the way out of the masterpiece that was his home. Eyes that reflected the depth of ocean waters closed as he ran his hands over the cascade of ebony on his head. She had been a distraction at best. The council had gone mad. They had their heads in the sand regarding this outworlder registration. They had decided they would stay put and offer no help to those outside their borders, nor would they bow to the registration. They were asking for war to come to their shores. Truth was a war didn’t concern the elf, it was the complete abandon of the outworlders that had yet to find their way to South America that boiled his blood. Just because they had been fortunate enough to get stranded on this world on the southern continent, didn’t give them the right to see the others as less than them. Well…..all were not as grand as him in his own eyes, but he also protected his own… something the council was SUPPOSED to be in place to do. Well the council might sit idle, but he wouldn’t. Wet strides pulled him out of the stream, robe snapped off the wall and wrapped loosely around himself as he padded through the stone hallways. If he was going to start intervening he was going to need a transporter and while Eris had proved good for hauling his cargo, he wouldn’t trust outworlders to an earthborn no matter how much he trusted already. No…. he needed an outworlder and he had heard rumors of one already doing exactly what he sought, ferrying outworlders out of harms way. They just needed a place to go. That was where the head of NARWA came in. Megildur had room for hundreds more outworlders, and the thankful tended to be loyal so it was a win-win for the elf. He needed to find that boatman. A quick call had transportation on its way. He was heading to New York. That was where the rumor came from, that was where he would poke around. It was time he took action.
  5. Rhome Del Santo


    January 8th, 2019 4pm At first it was bright. Surprising. Then agonizing. Skin seared a vicious red, prickled panic shooting up his flesh to pull a sharp seethe from his teeth. It was instinctual, jerk away from the oven more of defiant incredulousness than anything else. What did he do? WHAT did he DO?? Dropping the pan on top of the oven, footsteps were quick in the small kitchen, the dead smack center of the lunch rush murmuring in the front of the small mom and pop café. He’d forgotten to use his apron to pull the tray out of the oven. *npc* Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…. What on earth did you do? Eyes reflected at her with a confused sheen, cradling the offended hand with his other in refusal to show her. He didn’t know what to do, pacing. Stunned. Mira pulled his babied hand carefully from the clutch of the other, turning on the faucet and placing it underneath. What was he thinking? He’d been so careful….flinching as the water sluiced over his palm. *npc* Darn it, you got that good. Breath was a bit quick. Dear god he’d burned himself. He knew pain. He knew more pain than most could even imagine. This? This was beyond pain. It was psychological whiplash. Hand was shaking under the water. It was painful, the bright flashes of frayed nerves warping his hearing in and out. There were more flickers that slapped inside his brain like a whip, flashbacks. Burning skin and helplessness. They were getting worse lately, the cold he couldn’t seem to shake out of his bones an annoyance that was coming back to haunt him as well. *npc* You’re working too fast, don’t worry… we handle this rush fine every day. I’ll get Dominic off the floor to finish your orders. Keep this under the water for a few more minutes. He started to protest, the hazel eyes under a brow of incredible character flashed back at him. The mother of three shushed him and went to find the other cook. The humble former priest….assassin…viciously talented mage…. whatever…. shushed by a soccer mom. Mira owned the corner diner and coffee shop, loved his cooking, wanted him to work more hours though he said he didn’t need to get paid any more. His hands now created, worked hard, then went home every day to a gentle and plain hole in the wall to pick up a book and read until he fell asleep. The simplicity of his life now echoed before the world had ended. Maybe someday he could scrape together enough to have his own place, for now… having so little was overwhelmingly enough. Gray watched the skin of his palm with an odd fascination. Where flame used to be, there was now nothing. After a few moments, he wrapped it in gauze from the first aid kit in the break room and continued under the concerned browbeating of his boss, Mira. Dominic returned to bussing tables. The pain pricked at him, lunch rush flying by like it did every day. Kitchen cleaned, sitting in the break nook to finally peel the gauze back and really look at his hand. *npc* You don’t eat enough. Made you a sandwich, let me look at that. She plucked his hand from his bubble. *npc* Let me get something on this before you leave. You should really keep an eye on this. She dressed it properly, a flinch every now and again from the quiet features, handing him his pea coat. He slid it on, picking up the sandwich with a quiet thanks before leaving for the day. He never stayed to chat. Winding his scarf around his neck to keep out the chill and adjusting his hood, he stepped out into the tepid winter and slid the offended hand into his pocket to make his way home. It was a long walk. Sure, there were buses and subways, but he preferred to walk. It gave him time to think, time to breathe, but damn it was cold. He was always cold. Cutting through the park, he sat for a moment out of the wind and pulled his hood closer around his features, studying a winter silenced carousel as he finished the sandwich and dusted his hand of on his jeans. Sigh was quiet, he’d forgotten to take off his apron, frowning slightly as he slipped his hand from his pocket and looked at Mira's handiwork. Irony was not lost on him. Tomorrow was his day off. Library maybe? He wasn't sure. Nothing was better than a day spent reading... lately though, even that was lonely.
  6. Josef Carroll Boudreaux

    Ghost Ocean

    June 26th, 2019 Greenwood Cemetery, New York 3am The stairs were endless, nameless faces from every side making the trek up the steel fire escape a forbidden path. He wasn't supposed to know it existed. He wasn’t supposed to be there, he couldn’t make that path. He didn’t belong. Snow began to fly, hastening his travel up the stairs, coming to the top of a building that was built in a square, the courtyard below also square. No way in from any side, only a five story drop from his perch into the broken brick center. Windows lined the inside like portholes, nameless faces jeering at him, trapped in the building with no doors, in a square around an empty courtyard. Looking back, the stairs were gone, the wind and snow looming inward… he would jump, or he would be pushed. A powerful swell in his gut fluttered as he jumped, and the billow behind him commanding enough to squash the terror. Silence from the portholes. Feet landed with power in the middle of the emptiness, looking upward at the building that now surrounded him… the portholes of faces reverent to the ethereal wings of light that had billowed a parachute and then tucked once toward him as he turned to cast eyes on the objects that had saved him from death. Gone as he turned, a doorway behind him that hadn’t been there before. Doorless and dark. He stepped through, rows of red velvet seats arching downward toward a stage. A man sat smack center of the seating- pale, sickly, resting in the chair with indifference. The stage was busting with life, café tables full of characters from everywhere, acknowledging him softly as he walked up the steps to the stage. Red curtain closed behind him. He paused, then sat at a table in the center. To his left, a woman tattooing into a shadow, eyes and stringy fronds of several peacock feathers stuck to her right forearm like decorations, twitching as the machine buzzed it’s ink. In front of her, unrecognizable- a burnt face wearing old western movie racist stereotype First Nation clothing, the figure getting up and offering everyone a nip from a whisky canteen. To his right in the corner shadows, stalls… bathroom?… blood on the walls, suits and old men with white hair. Small pieces of red tape in a circle on the black-washed pine stage floor. A man pied-pipering students in a music lesson. His glance away and back was brief… now green tape in different shapes, a woman and new children. Behind as he dared look over his right shoulder, a hallway… dark, nothing… brought back to the curtain in front of him by chatter and excitement; the cast of characters peeking out through a small part in the curtain to the audience. The sickly man in the seat still alone. Whispers of his fate. Would he join their stage party? Small flakes of snow had sprinkled the red velvet seats from the doorway he’d entered. It was spilling in, rivers of drifts creeping closer and closer to the stage... closer to the sickly man catching all their attention. Then he was gone. His fate? Not their stage. The slight part of the curtains closed, and all went back about their business. “You are not supposed to be here.” He looked up with hazel eyes, twinkle of gris-gris on his wrist. A large woman hovered over him in his small café chair, setting down an iridescent pink mother of pearl plate, the four corners decorated with white pearls that were crumbling apart. “Tell her,” a voice was commanding. Brows furled, looking from the woman to a man with white hair now sitting at his table to his right where there had been none before. Tan shirt with tiny white pinstripes and khakis, a thick almost undetectable gray and snow white shock of luxe hair. He placed another plate on top of the woman's broken one. Identical and perfect. “She looks for diamonds. Diamonds to fix it.” Eyes under snow white hair were hollow, never looking into the hazel that now stared at him quizzically. “To put it back together. She doesn’t need to shrine to me. Tell her I’m there, I give her signs.” The man swiped the back of his neck to indicate the tickle he would give whomever he spoke of, whoever was the recipient of the need to know he was there. Black eyes fell to the stack of broken and perfect plates. “I would have given her a better one.” “You are not supposed to be here,” it was the large frizzy gray haired woman again, looking straight into the hazel eyes and then the black hallways everyone was avoiding. He got up, moving in the opposite direction toward the curtains, parting to step back into the audience seating. It was buried, sand dune-like never-ending drifts of snow. Impassible. Jumping in, a tiny path parted as he pushed through at first, then walked…beyond into a sea of white and fierce blizzard. Finally, yellow grass…a road… a twinkle of glass and silence from the howl of wind. Body jerked awake, the twinkle of a bottle as his fingers had unconsciously let go in a buzzed doze pulling him from his often rampant, metaphoric dreams. His nanny said he was a sensitive. He just thought he drank too much. He leaned his head back, the angel above him on the mausoleum steps he’d perched on still swathed in darkness even though the east horizon throbbed with a pale blue light to chase away the depths of black everywhere else. That was fucking good bourbon, bottle was lifted to check the name again. Never heard of it before, and he'd heard of everything. The magus stretched, gris-gris twinkling at his wrist, reaching to rub the other around his neck between his tailored suit shirt and collarbone with his thumb. The jazz, had been someone good. Finally. Bourbon even better. Left sometime after 2am for home. Too drunk to drive. The cemetery was now his friend, it was always the nightcap that kept his sanity intact. Others might see him unusual. The Cajun was far from ordinary, but definitely sane… to most anyway. His dreams though, with the world the way it was could never be wholly believed or dismissed. He couldn’t tell her the message that the "ghost" in his odd dreams wanted her to know, she was also dead, and he knew the man would have "given her a better one". It wasn’t the first time he dreamt of his father, or his father's need to give his mother the best of everything, but it was the first time the dictator had mentioned his mother. They were never in love. Ever. The rich could never be in love, it was marriage of dynasties. Dynasties gave their own the best of everything, because that's what kings and queens of did. Interesting change in his often strange dreams, his father mentioning his mother. The plates recognized as the ones he'd broken as a child. The shrine? His mother had taken his father's things after his death and tried to "fix them", "like he would have wanted". She was lost without him, not because she loved him, but because she was always searching for his love even in his death. The gesture to the back of his neck? He was stumped on that one. Getting up, he shrugged off his jacket and lifted his bottle, tapping the nearest headstone and clinking a few bits of change down near the gate on the mausoleum he’d spent the night sitting and leaning against. 5am maybe? Feet hit the cobbled path as he made his way through the thick cemetery, on his way home. Car was close, and he was sober enough now to make it home.
  7. Kai Alexander Morgan

    Desperately Seeking Sanity

    August 2nd, 2018 Morning- to Late PM Later Morgan Institute for Behavioral Medicine Morgan Community Gym Fingertips rubbed a velvety petal between them, the saturated purple such a beautiful hue. It felt so soft, delicate, reminded him of Mack’s skin, the thought immediately bringing a fierce internal reprimand over his brow. She was everywhere in his apartment, the scent of her, the haze of delirium unable to be scrubbed from the sheets, or the furniture no matter what he did. She still lived there despite being gone, taunting him with an ethereal grace that he couldn’t touch. More than a taunt. A vicious and unforgiving wrench to their state of affairs. She was gone, and they couldn’t be together. The killer slowly picked across the massive African violet with intent care as he groomed it, hands skilled at sucking the life from anything and everything he touched were so delicate with the only possession he really cared about. It thrived when nothing else did, and now Sophia wasn’t doing well, the purse of his features always a crapshoot whether rehearsed or real as he watered the giant plant. It had been with him since the beginning, and now even it was dying. Mrs. Kolcheck was dying. Sophia was dying. The Vanguard prevented anything from ever being allowed to be with Mack, and he was no closer to her would-be killer than he was the night he’d discovered the bitch. Soft sigh signaled he was done. The vibrant green was fading, petals were dropping, a complete reflection of how he felt on the inside. Still, work didn’t stop for his moods, there were people that needed him and he needed to get into the office. The rain dreary day made it all the worse, locking his apartment in his professional looking khakis and button down, fractured green glancing across the hall to a door where Mrs. Kolcheck wasn’t- in the nursing home and doubtful to return. That would mean he would have to clean out the apartment for her, and someone else would move in. Gears would turn, life would move on and leave the miserable Were to continue to hate the world in silence. He was always just a stone’s throw, a twig snap away from unleashing hell on earth. A rock to his patients, a killer in the shadow. Maybe he just needed a pet. Ride to work was quiet, dreary mist pattering on the windshield of his Mercedes SUV, parking in his new office. It had been finished for some time, old patients and new flocking in to improve their lives, never knowing the person giving them advice was a serial killer Were. The kind the Vanguard feared, the one that should have been put down a long time ago. Before becoming attached to Mrs. Kolcheck, before Mack, before becoming a pillar in the community of a broken world. If the world only knew his secrets, the horror would bring him down with pitchforks and blazing torches. [kai]Good morning,[/kai] he greeted his secretary with a voice that disarmed anyone, hummed in his chest with a sultry smoke. That was why they trusted him. He could be anything to anyone... except Mack. That was why she'd gotten under his skin. He poured himself a cup of coffee -one of the only scents that didn't trip the beast- seethed on the inside with a smile that fooled the world… and settled in to the polished and fashionable counselors office for the day.
  8. Rorye Shannon-Kearney


    April 31st, 2018 8pm Johann's Harbor Property Light flicked on in the waning light. Hot, even hotter in a leather jacket and her normal feminine Harley’s. Jeans. Sweat was already beading at the nape of her spine. Nightly runs with the new beast had been habit. The truck was well running, and she knew winter would lead her back to it without fail, but this had called to her the second she saw it for sale in an apartment complex in Hells. Negotiated, chastised by Nina, it was hers. Bikes were insane. THIS was insane. People were morons on the road. She had to be faster. With her reflexes, loathe of cars, and need to be in open air it was a perfect match. Johann had been gracious enough to let her run the gamut of his harbor area, falling, failing, choking out. Learning on her own was lot she’d been thrown in life. Nobody she knew drove a bike and she was damn determined to close the gap. She could get it to move, balance… shift, not near the speed of what the bike was capable of. The concrete was a hindrance, debris. It was a great chance to learn how to maneuver, but…skid was sharp, the sound of leather rolling over itself as she came to a stop several feet from the bike. Hands slapped the pavement in frustration. Damn it. There was no way she would learn until she opened it up where it was supposed to be driven. Of course that meant the highway, highways that took her to places that she’d promised not to go again. She wasn’t going anywhere, just far enough to open up the bike. Arms were already resting on raised knees. She’d promised. Fuck. Not far, just far enough, a mile or two out. Groaning, plait was re-done in her hair, pulling the helmet from the back and almost putting it on- she strapped it back down. What was the point of being free, when you weren’t? The bike was examined for damage other than its primer black scratches. It wasn’t new, by any means… but it was hers and she loved it. Only a few things lately she loved, and they were something other than her shop. Branching out, becoming more than just a community savior. Living. Finally fucking living beyond the shadow of the Resonance. Kickstarting it again, she slowly guided herself out of the bramble of harbor to the street. Heart pounding, skin flushed- prickled. This was the real thing, she couldn’t fall and catch herself in the real thing. It was easier than she thought, guiding through traffic for a while, and suddenly through proxy on an on-ramp. Inhale sharp, she leaned forward to gun the engine once, taking off like a rocket…
  9. Kai Alexander Morgan

    At What Cost?

    Attention was on his surroundings, listening quietly to the rather excited upstart realtor that was no doubt trying in earnest to put the world back together, or at least render it to a lull normalcy. The Were had other plans for this building, smiling softly at her with the casual quirk to the left side of his lips that made her eyes twinkle at him. The compact, neatly dressed, bubbly young woman pressed multiple numbers on a keypad, the door to the lower level releasing with a rather loud click. She illuminated the steps downward, explaining there were private security elevators that once were used to enter the vaults below. It smelled like metal, a strong and penetrating scent that quivered a muscle in his cheek. The thought process was the last one he would ever consider, or would have ever considered until now. There was never any question he had to remove himself from the general population every moon. It was different now, the world complicated. Mrs. Kolcheck. Mack. There were times he could not leave. He could still function during the day, but it was a struggle. It had occurred to him that forced socialization during days he normally just allowed himself to rest in solitude could pick away at his level of control. He would just have to learn to keep himself stable. Nodding to her lengthy explanations, pointing out each vault that were once used for safety deposit boxes and incredibly rare artifacts as well as the two main lock-ups, she was trying really hard to sell him the place. He let her, the decision was already made. He’d looked at banks, other museums and even libraries. Libraries simply did not have the security to maintain a full throttle Were in kill mode. Even their highly secured special collections areas didn’t have the wall capacity. Banks didn’t have the open space he wanted. This one however, a small museum gallery that specialized in the showing, storage and sale of rare jewelry and gems… it was perfect. The main floor above could be transformed into his studio for his classes, an entire office area in the back with a private entrance for his practice. The lower level was his, even had the capacity to entertain several Weres at a time. Take out the boxes and there were five metal rooms that could withstand an explosion. She flipped through her small notepad and punched the keypad for the largest in the corner, struggling to swing the several foot thick circular door open. Smile was easy as his hands slid from his creased khaki pockets and helped her, then stepped inside. This was what it had come to, air pulled into his lungs at the empty coffin of steel. Imprisoning himself. There were precautions to be had. The Vanguard wasn’t stupid. Vaults were a prime place for a Were to hide in plain sight. It would take work to shut off the lower levels and only allow access to himself. [kai]Who has access to these panels?[/kai] warm voice hummed in his chest, the comforting quality one that hid the horrible thing he was. *npc* “Whoever purchases the property. They can be changed to suit.” He nodded thoughtfully, hands sliding back in the pockets of his suit pants as he turned and nodded to her, [kai]I’ll take it.[/kai]
  10. Rorye Shannon-Kearney

    Out of Obscurity, Into the Fire

    January 17, 2018 7pm- Simultanious to the First Explosion “Fuck” The word was sharp, covered by the smacks and grunts of others in the gym pushing weights and punching dummies. Hand reached behind her to hold the muscle at the base of her back that had been hit by the wooden pole, walking off the pain. Head stretched to the side, an uncomfortable crackle in her neck. Bokkens were plopped on a bench, one glove pulled off, stuffed under her arm as the tall frame stretched a bit before tipping back water from her favorite bottle. She was out of breath, which was rare, making up for years of ignoring the fact she wasn’t just a mundane living in a world while trying to keep the monsters out. She’d turned over the reins of the shop in the evenings to Nina, who seemed pleased. Not only because she had been wanting more responsibility for a while, but because Rorye finally was seeking some kind of life outside of the building she never left. The gym had always been a favorite place to go, certainly not regularly, and never with a specific goal to do anything other than just run, or kickbox. *npc* Control.. control, thought process and control. “Shut up Jeff,” her face scrunched a bit as she itched the freckles on her nose with the back of her ungloved hand. *npc* No, seriously. You’re fast as hell, but you’re like a bike… I throw a stick in your spokes and you’re a road-rashed face plant. He nodded toward the blossoming bruise on her back below her jade green sports bra. Chuckle was rare, the quick smile on her face pulling the elegant features into a youthful expression. She tipped the water up again, swishing it in her cheek before swallowing and setting it down to return her glove to her hand and pick up the short bokkens again. “Point taken Obi Wan,” nod was slight, she got it. Her power was only useful with skill. Offense and avoid. There was no defense, especially if the person going after her had any type of enhanced strength. Her strength was her momentum, but it was only as strong as she was. Pure skill would keep her from getting hit, and making the kill before it got to that point. She could put a knife in someone’s eye socket before they mustered the power to throw a spell at her, but if they were already throwing one, she had to have the skill to evade. The middle aged man pointed toward the wooden dummy of poles mounted in different directions. *npc* Tired of getting hit by your unrestrained ass, consider that love tap a warning. You’re banished to the dummy for the rest of the night. Go slow. Precise. “Traitor,” she smirked, the grip on her bokkens tightening, snatched tighter as the world seemed to throb… followed split second by a vibration that rumbled through the floor and thundered at the glass. Eyes immediately flicked to the televisions over the treadmills, the pictures flickering viciously and sputtering back to normal. The room was silent, motionless as it contemplated what had just happened. Good god, not again. The first thing that crossed her mind was another Event. Instead of panic and the pushing and shoving that others were starting to perpetuate, she grabbed her jacket and headed to the door, ponytail swishing like an angry teenager. Breath curled into the dark cold as she paused on the sidewalk, looking up at the orange glow in the sky that reflected back down from imposing clouds. Without another thought, feet wasted no time… she had to get back to the shop and make sure everyone was okay.


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