Expllo

Dragon Age: Dark Scion

@Archangel89 We currently have two Exceptions slots available. The party would benefit greatly from another Warrior being present. I will be out of town from today until Monday, so feel free to brainstorm and work on your CS in that time frame. I may or may not be around to answer questions, so feel free to join the Discord. It is the fastest way to reach me, and members will be happy to answer questions for you as well in my absence.

Dragon Age: Dark Scion

The Rethari Blades

Location: Hidden Outpost on the Border of the Anderfels and Tevinter

Time: Dusk, on the cusp of a moonless night

The meeting room emptied in slow waves, boots thudding against the stone, voices low and clipped as orders sank in. The Blades dispersed into the outpost’s twisting halls and out into the rain slick camp beyond, each slipping into the rhythms of preparation in their own way.

Diana was amongst the first into the storm. She didn’t bother with a hood, the downpour streaking over her crimson cloak and pooling off the angled plates of her armor. She strode between tents and cookfires like a warship cutting through choppy seas. The steady drum of rain on steel underscored every step. Her sharp eyes missed nothing. Two recruits leaning too long on their spears, a sentry huddled under the awning of a supply wagon, a mage half dozing over a steaming pot. “You!” she barked at the recruits, voice cutting through the rain like steel through sinew. “If you’re not ready to fight now, you won’t be ready when the darkspawn come! To the training grounds! Move!”

Diana kept going, snapping men and women upright in her wake, stripping the lethargy from the camp as thoroughly as the wind stripped warmth from the skin. By the time she reached the hard packed dirt of the sparring yard, several warriors had already gathered under her glare. “Pair off,” she ordered, drawing her own blade. “And if you hold back, I’ll know. Then I’ll make you regret it.”

Celeste emerged a few moments later wrapped in a pale hooded cloak whose muted blues and creams were already darkened by the rain. The hood shadowed her face as droplets trailed off its rim. Strands of silvery white hair clung damp to her cheeks and neck. Her robes were heavier with each step, the sodden fabric pulling gently at her frame. She moved without hurry, though, with hands raised just enough to trace sigils in the air as she walked the perimeter of the camp. Faint glyphs hidden in the mud and moss glimmered to life where her fingers passed, the wards’ soft glow deepening against the storm’s gloom. Her voice almost lost to the rain in low murmurs as she layered fresh enchantments over old ones. Now and then, a sigil would spark and flare brighter, sending a ripple of force into the ground before settling back into a steady hum.

Minerva made a far less subtle exit. Her boots clicked against stone in a brisk, playful, rhythm as she skipped down one of the main halls, a jaunty tune spilling from her lips, humming between verses she clearly didn’t remember all of. The flicker of torchlight danced along her dark hair as she turned a corner and spotted a broad, familiar back ahead. “Rasaad!” she called just before breaking into a run and launching herself at the Qunari. She landed squarely between his massive shoulder blades, her arms hooking loosely around his neck as she grinned down at him like an overgrown child clambering a favored warhorse.

“What’re you up to, hm? Thinking I should put my name in for Dean’s little jaunt,” she teased. “Camp’s so bloody boring I’m liable to start sparring with the cook just to stay sharp.”

She leaned forward, grinning wide enough for him to hear it in her voice. “Tell me you’re itching for a real fight too. We’ve been marching and waiting so long I was starting to think the darkspawn forgot we were coming.”

---

Thalen ‘Kelf’ Syl'varin

Location: Hidden Outpost on the Border of the Anderfels and Tevinter

Time: Dusk, on the cusp of a moonless night

Kelf’s gaze had been fixed on the far wall when Vae’nra first approached. His mind drifted back to the carnage they’d witnessed. The twisted remains left behind by the darkspawn clawed at his memory. Torn limbs, hollowed eyes, the stench of blood and rot. It was chaotic, but familiar. Too familiar. His jaw clenched as the image of his old camp surfaced. Bodies were strewn across the forest floor, their tattoos smeared with blood. Lives snuffed out without ceremony. The elders, the hunters, the children… none spared. He remembered the way the trees had stood still, as if mourning. The way the wind had refused to blow. The way he’d found his sister’s bow snapped in half beside her mangled body.

Vae’nra’s healing touch was subtle enough that he didn’t call it out. A slight shift in his jaw betrayed that he’d felt the faint knitting of flesh beneath his tunic, bringing his mind back to where he stood. When she poured the ale, his eyes finally moved to her, taking her in with a slow, deliberate, scan. She finished, and the silence between them stretched like a taut wire. Then, slowly, Kelf leaned forward. The leather of his gloves creaked softly as he rested his forearms on the table. As Vae’nra spoke, he listened without interruption. His hand absently rolled the hilt of his dagger between two fingers, metal glinting faintly in the low light.

“You should come tomorrow,” the corners of his mouth tugged upward in something almost like a smirk. It was the closest thing to a smile one would get from Kelf. When she reached the part about them all dying, and her spirit twisting into some guilt ridden demon, he set the dagger down. The sound was soft.

“You’re not mad,” he responded, voice low and even. Kelf placed his hand over hers where it gripped the mug. It was a rare gesture from him. His palm was warm, rough from years of work. His eyes were sharp and darker than a midnight blade, yet softened in this moment. “You’re scared. And you should be. So am I. Those who aren’t won’t last long.” His thumb gave the barest squeeze against her knuckles before withdrawing.

“It wasn’t your fault, Vae. That sound, the stench… it’s not something you train for. Anyone who hasn’t seen what they do would’ve wretched.” He paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “They were already coming. You didn’t call them. You didn’t lead them. You didn’t bring them to us.”

Kelf took the mug she’d offered, sniffed it once, and gave a grunt of distaste. Still, he drank. “Maker’s balls, you weren’t lying. This tastes like it was strained through a boot.”

---

Dean

Location: Hidden Outpost on the Border of the Anderfels and Tevinter

Time: Dusk, on the cusp of a moonless night

Dean had just slung the heavy strap of his warhammer across his back when the voice called out to him. He turned, the motion deliberate, one good eye fixing on the source. Nicolosia. The dwarf’s gaze swept her from head to boots in one slow pass taking in the squared shoulders, the athletic build. Her muscles didn’t come from idle training. She had the frame. The stance. But he caught the faint tightness in her jaw, the way her fingers brushed around as though she was grounding herself. Nerves. Dean stepped toward her without a word at first, circling with the slow, predatory patience of someone who’d done this a thousand times before. His boots made a low, steady thud against the stone as he paced, forcing her to turn slightly to follow him.

“Yer built like a fighter,” he finally spoke, a gravelly rumble that carried in the narrow hall. “Got the arms for a shield or the swing for a blade. But muscle won’t save you if your gut freezes the first time you hear one of their screams.”

He stopped beside her, head tilting up just enough for his good eye to meet hers. “You truly ready to see the horrors of the darkspawn? Not the stories, lass. Them. Their stink, their teeth, the way they don’t stop until the smell of rot is all that’s left of you? Are you ready to die, not for your own glory, not for coin, but for the Blades… for Thedas? Ready to die and be forgotten while the fat kings keep their thrones and their petty wars?” His words were heavy, and blunt. Underneath it all was measure, not dismissal.

Dean moved back around to face her, crossing thick arms over his chest. The lines on his scarred face were cut deep, but so was the flicker of respect in his eye. “I see a warrior in you, lass. I’ve also seen too many chase greatness only to choke when the world asked for their bones.” He stepped back, adjusting the weight of his warhammer again. “When the sky clears, you’ll have your chance to prove yourself. If you mean what you’ve just asked me, be there. If not, don’t waste my time.”

---

Delilah

Location: Hidden Outpost on the Border of the Anderfels and Tevinter

Time: Dusk, on the cusp of a moonless night

Delilah lingered near the hearth inside the main hall, her fingers weaving delicate patterns in the air as faint sparks of arcane light flickered at her fingertips. The rain drummed relentlessly against the stone and canvas beyond, but inside, a circle of shimmering wards glowed softly around the perimeter of the room. When a pair of young recruits stumbled past, sputtering nervously about the “lull before the storm,” Delilah gave a shake of her head.

“Calm is a luxury we can’t afford,” she murmured, voice barely above the crackling of the warded flame in the hearth. “The Fade’s stirring, and so are they.”

Delilah rose before pulling the hood of her cloak over her silver white hair. The fabric clung heavy and cold as she stepped into the rain, her footsteps careful on the slick stones. Outside, she began moving through the camp. Near the training grounds, the clatter of steel and shouted commands echoed through the rain. Delilah caught sight of Diana barking orders, her blade flashing as she pushed the warriors to shed their lethargy. The warrior's presence was fierce, and when their eyes met briefly, Delilah inclined her head in quiet respect. Delilah knew Diana’s fire would keep them sharp, and steady.

As she turned toward the center of camp, she spotted Minerva, skipping lightly along the halls with a bright smile, before she bounded onto Rasaad’s broad back. Their easy camaraderie was a brief spark of warmth against the storm’s chill. Delilah allowed herself a momentary smile. Many Blades’ spirits were fragile at this time, but theirs remained alive.

Delilah’s eyes then caught Raeretha watching Rasaad. The way Raeretha regarded Rasaad, curious and contemplative despite wariness, reminded Delilah of the unspooling of understanding that often came with time and trial. The world was shifting beneath their feet, and so too were the lines they once thought fixed. There was a gentleness about Raeretha that didn’t quite fit with the Dalish lullabies Delilah had heard from Kelf. Delilah allowed herself a brief, almost imperceptible, nod toward Raeretha as the woman stood and gathered her things to find flowers to sketch.

Delilah’s gaze flicked toward Fleur as the bard slipped quietly through the shadows of the camp. The elf rogue moved with effortless grace blending into the gloom like whisper in wind. Part predator, part performer. That night in the tavern. Tension had crackled beneath the lute’s final chord, with the cold steel of a dagger flashing between them. Fleur had held her ground with equal parts charm and lethal precision. Delilah had seen many faces in her travels, hardened by war, bitter and broken, but Fleur’s had held a rare fire. A dangerous spark was hidden beneath the smooth smile, and delicate hands, that could coax music from strings or silence from enemies. Delilah had been impressed by the way Fleur met danger with a smirk instead of fear. Even after the assassin’s attempt on her life, Delilah found herself offering Fleur a place among them. Delilah recognized something in her: A survivor, and a wild card who could turn the tide in their favor if they played their hands right. Delilah caught herself smiling thinly.

When the storm broke, they’d need every blade, every note, and every fierce heart to stand against The Blight.

The Season of the Enlightened

Cassiel - Obasi

_{Location: Mr. Maleficar's Traveling Circus | Storage Tent}

In one of the unused storage tents, tucked behind a line of painted wagons and stacked animal cages, a single lantern burned low. Its light barely touched the edges of the canvas walls, and that was intentional. Inside, the ground was clear; no crates, and no clutter. Only a circle of smooth dirt, scuffed from hours of pacing. At the center stood a man, still and barefoot. Slender. Tall. He breathed in. And Cassiel opened his eyes.

A long thread of darkness spilled out from beneath his feet, unraveling like ink in water. It slithered across the floor and up the side of the tent, before blooming into a limbed puppet, hunched, and silent. Then another. And another. Their shapes are unnatural, shifting, changing into a fox, a faceless woman, a spiral with hands… Cassiel watched, his pale hands lifted in subtle gestures, dancing with absolute control.

“You always start too stiff,” Obasi said from inside. His voice was warm, but hinted at impatience. Cassiel didn’t respond. He merely flicked his fingers and the puppets moved, swayed, melting, reforming. A wolf opened its jaw and became a crown. “They don’t want poetry,” Obasi continued. “They want wonder. You’re all theater and no breath, brother.”

Cassiel’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “And you’re all breath, no pacing. Which is why you come second.”

He exhaled. Slowly. And as the air left him, so did the cold. His skin flushed with color. Hair darkened, curls tightening, coiling with heat. Shadow bled away, and in its place came light streaming from his fingertips like sunbeams split through crystal. Where the puppets had danced, now prisms pulsed, refracting across the tent walls in shifting patterns: First suns, comets, and then explosions of gold.

Obasi laughed out loud, wide eyed and eager. “Now we’re talking.”

He spun once, arm out, and sent a blazing arc of light through the tent like a whip, carving the illusion of a phoenix from smoke and flame. He clapped and sent the bird soaring, wingspan flaring against the fabric like fire trapped in a dome. Then, without warning, his footing faltered. Cassiel yanked back control. The light vanished. Shadow slammed down. The tent snapped back to stillness. Cassiel was breathing hard, bent slightly at the waist. Sweat clung to his temple. “You're pushing too fast.”

“You’re holding too long,” Obasi snapped. “You know what that does. I build pressure. The longer you sit on me, the harder I hit when I break through.”

“But we need precision. Not fireworks.”

“We need awe.”

Silence fell. Not angry. Not truly. Just tired. Cassiel rolled their shared neck until it popped. “Let’s run the full transition.” Obasi gave no reply, but he didn’t resist. Cassiel extended his hand. Shadows pooled around his wrist then snaked outward, taking shape into a tiny, silhouetted ballerina this time, delicate and trembling. With a soft breath, he handed her to the air… And Obasi took her. Light swallowed the shadow midair with harmony. The ballerina ignited into a streak of sun, and then burst into a thousand golden flecks. It was seamless. Perfect. Obasi smiled faintly. “We’ll need to be faster during the real performance. There’s a new spotlight rig.”

“Then stop dragging your heels,” Obasi murmured.

They stood still for a moment, heart thudding. The lantern flickered. Cassiel spoke: “Do you think… if we keep perfecting this… they’ll stop seeing us as two?”

“No,” Obasi replied. ”They'll always think we’re two separate people, but it’s easier than what we are.”

The tent was still warm from their work. Ashes of light clung to the fabric walls, glowing faintly before vanishing. Cassiel had taken back the body for now, sitting with knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. His pale skin shimmered with a thin sheen of sweat, shadows curling lazily from his fingers as if reluctant to rest. Outside, laughter echoed from the main camp. “People have been talking again,” Obasi said, voice soft inside their mind. Cassiel didn’t look up. “They never stop.”

“This one’s new. Something about ravens.”

Cassiel snorted under his breath. “And mirrors? I appreciate the gothic flair.”

“Dreams, too. They love the idea of us reaching through the veil.”

There was a long pause. Cassiel’s eyes drifted to the lantern’s flickering flame. “They think we’re brothers. Or lovers. Or both.”

“As if those things are exclusive?”

Cassiel gave a slow, crooked smile. “Would you love me if I weren’t inside your head?”

“You’d be entirely unbearable outside of it.” Obasi chuckled. “And I’d still love you.”

Silence. Then, Cassiel whispered, “The ‘kill one and the other dies screaming’ rumor is my favorite.”

“Because it’s true?”

“Because it sounds tragic enough to be beautiful.”

Obasi didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like… to be seen. Both of us. At the same time. No rumors. No guessing games. Just… truth.” Cassiel let the thought hang. “Would they still clap, I mean?” Obasi corrected, sensing his brother's unease. “Would they still call it magic, or would they call it monstrous?”

“They already do,” Cassiel replied gently. “They just pay more for the lie.” Cassiel leaned back against a stack of folded costumes, eyes drifting shut, the shared body finally beginning to rest. “Let them wonder,” he murmured. “Let them write poems and whisper warnings. We are not theirs to understand.”

“We never were, brother,” Obasi agreed.

For a while, they said nothing else. Just sat in the silence between breaths, between selves, and between night and day.

Camp Athens - Closed

<sub>The lights of The Velvet Vixen melted into blue and violet hues as the first notes of "Sextape" rippled through the club. That slow, pulsing, beat. That haunting whisper of sound. The beat was slow. Sultry. Like someone whispering against your skin in the dark.

She stepped into the light.

Bare legs first, heels clicking softly like raindrops on glass. A black silk robe barely clung to her frame, open just enough to show the bare valley between her breasts and the subtle curve of her hip. Her skin shimmered under the lights like she’d just stepped out of a dream. She didn’t look at the crowd. Not really. She moved like she already owned every pair of eyes in the room, and that’s because she did.

She made it to the pole, turned once, slow and smooth, her hips circling in rhythm to the bass. Her hand slid up the steel, then her body followed. Legs parted as she climbed it, slow and deliberate, the robe slipping off her shoulders from one side, then the other.

"Floating on the water / Ever changing…"

She locked her thighs around the pole and held herself there, upside down, suspended like a work of art. Her back arched. Her mouth opened just enough to draw a gasp from someone behind me. She slid down slowly, inch by inch, until she hovered inches above the floor.

"Picture hours out from that, In tune with all our dreams…"

Then, she crawled. Hands flat, back dipped low, breasts swaying with every movement, toward the edge of the stage like a predator. She locked eyes with me. Me. As she brought one finger to her mouth and sucked it slowly, her tongue curling around the tip like she was testing the heat before devouring something raw.

"The ocean takes me / Into watch you shaking…"

And then that finger slid down her chest… between her breasts… over her stomach…

"Watch you weigh your powers / Tempt with hours of pleasure…"

Her eyes never left mine. She painted the moisture across her inner thigh, slow and unashamed, before cupping her chest, pressing them together like she wanted to trap all the tension building in the room.

"Take me one more time / Take me one more wave…"

She climbed the pole again, one leg extended high, hips grinding against the cold metal as if it were a lover. She let you imagine it. The music whispered around her like smoke:

"Take me for one last ride / I'm out of my head…"

By the end, she was sprawled across the stage, one hand between her thighs, the other trailing up her body as her back arched into a soft, soundless gasp. Her lips parted like she was just about to say something; your name, maybe, or a lie you’d want to believe.

"Tonight, tonight…"

She was the song. And I was drowning in her.</sub>

The man was still convulsing when they wheeled him out.

His face had gone pale, emptier. His lips were parted in a frozen moan, his pupils blown wide as if he’d stared straight into a god and couldn't come back from it. Jordan stood behind the velvet rope, one arm covering her chest, stage glitter still clinging to the sweat on her skin. The club had been cleared to a low murmur. The thumping music silenced. The red strobe lights faded into static gloom. Jordan watched as the paramedics pressed pads to his chest and whispered commands, the scent of alcohol and antiseptic mixing with the heat still rolling off her body. Her stage name echoed faintly through the space, ‘Divine’, like a cruel joke.

No one knew why he nearly died. But she did. She’d lost control. Midway through the final chorus of Sextape and meeting that man’s eyes, she'd pushed too far. She was heartbroken, hollowed out, and let her power spiral just a little. Just enough to tip the edge. She hadn’t meant to drown the poor man in pleasure so potent it short circuited his nervous system.

Yet here she was.

Backstage, the air was cold and sterile. The noise of the sirens had already faded into the city night. The other girls were quiet. Some watched her. Most didn’t. They were used to drama, but not this. Not the way Jordan just stood in front of her mirror, robe still open, eyes red but dry. Her makeup had smudged down one cheek. She sat at her vanity, hands shaking. Her reflection looked unfamiliar. Her gaze fell to the bottle. A deep violet glass, cork sealed with gold wax. the crude label written in Greek, but immediately understandable to her:

_{“Drink this when you’re ready. -D”}

Jordan didn’t hesitate. With trembling fingers she unscrewed the cap, brought it to her lips, and drank the entire thing like it was nothing. The taste was of dark fruit and copper. Sweetness turned sour halfway down her throat. It burned, then cooled, and then tingled. She stood gasping, breath caught in her chest, fingertips twitching as her entire world melted.

The air rippled around her in waves of heat and ivy. The mirror cracked like ice. The bulbs exploded in blooming flowers. The concrete floor beneath her heels shifted, becoming cool snow.

---

As Jordan stood before the gates of Camp Athens, the world shimmered with contradiction. Snowflakes drifted lazily from a sky too soft for storms, while an invisible warmth pulsed from somewhere deep within the camp. The cold kissed her shoulders, but it didn't bite. She adjusted her stance, one heel crunching into the snow-laced stone path. Before stepping through the threshold, she paused at the reflection of herself in a patch of still water beneath the gate. The mirror was cast by melted snow. Her eyeliner had smudged beneath her lower lashes, mascara drying in faint streaks across her cheekbones, proof of a night she'd rather erase. She knelt, dipped two fingers into the icy pool, and wiped her face clean in one stroke, slow and precise.

Beyond the gate, Camp Athens came alive with laughter and distant music. A bonfire cracked and howled in the heart of it all. She stood just beyond the firelight, watching the others drinking in joy, lust, and power. No one noticed her yet. She was glad, as she took in the casual clothing of most of the campers. Jordan was now happy for her last minute change out of her stage costume, or lack thereof rather. She wore a black halter dress, backless and cut to tease every inch of the eye. The front was a cascade of black feather-like velvet, wild and unruly, climbing over her chest. The texture shimmered with movement, brushing against her as if it were alive. Below the waist, the dress hugged her hips sculpting her silhouette. The edges of her long dark hair shimmered faintly in the magical warmth, strands catching light from the bonfire.

That’s when she saw him. Still walking like he carried the world’s sins in his pockets. Jordan watched as the girl approached him at the bar, all legs and laughter. She was bold, teasing, confident in the way only someone who hadn’t yet been burned by Ace could be. Jordan didn’t flinch, even when Blair pressed in close enough to brush her lips across his. Salt, shot, citrus. Lips, tongue, teeth. The ache in her chest was familiar, dull but manageable. She’d already drowned in it once. She wouldn’t do it again. Let him fall into the same old patterns. Let him kiss girls he’d never call back. Let him mistake distraction for healing. Jordan had offered him her truth back in that alley, the hope in her heart. Her goodbye. And he’d walked away. It was no longer her burden to carry. Ace was a storm. Beautiful, wild, but destructive. But, Jordan was tired of getting caught in the rain.

The warmth of the magical fire kissed her skin as she passed it, weaving deeper into the throng of the party. With Ace and Blair swallowed by the crowd and out of sight, Jordan finally allowed herself to exhale. She wasn’t going to make tonight about old wounds, or ghosts. She moved with confidence toward the bar, ready to lose herself in the clinking of glasses, the murmur of strangers, and the sharp bite of a well earned drink. For the first time in a long while, she was here to enjoy a night on her own terms.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Dante Virelli

Location: The Bastion - Personal Workshop

The flickering buzz of an overhead lamp casts long shadows across the cluttered workbench. Half eaten cheeseburger in one hand, warm, half melted milkshake in the other, Dante Virelli sat hunched over a sheet of oil stained parchment. His mess of black curls still bore the flattened imprint of a bunk pillow. The Bastion never truly slept, however. Grinding gears, echoing bootfalls, distant howls, but the halls were still quiet enough for thoughts to crawl in. Dante took another bite of the burger, jaw working as his other hand moved with mechanical certainty across the page. A sketch formed: Sleek, spring loaded vambraces capable of launching silver stakes with a flick of the wrist. He chewed. Considered. Crossed out a segment. Scribbled again, this time a modular design with rune inscribed cartridges, maybe for varying monster types. Vampires. Lycans. Fae. His foot tapped restlessly beneath the table.

“Effective,” he muttered, voice rough from sleep. “Also, wildly illegal under the Warden Oath if you forget the runic limiter.”

Not that it mattered. Morality was a clock with too many moving parts. One crack in the glass and time got slippery. Dante had seen it. The Wardens were supposed to be humanity’s blade against the dark, but sometimes blades turned. Sometimes it bled its own, like it had bled his parents. Dante’s glance fell from his paper onto the twin obsidian daggers resting in their velvet lined slot beside him. Each was carved with the blood rune seal of House Virelli, engraved in the language of old magitech. One had a chipped edge.

He didn’t polish them. They were meant to kill, not to shine.

"Better to be the hand that forges the weapon," his father used to say, "than the fool who trusts it blindly."

Dante swallowed the last of the burger, dropped the wrapper into a bin already overflowing with failed blueprints and half shattered gear components. He angled the next drawing into the lamplight. This one was different: A neural linked gauntlet designed to trigger a spectral snare, a tool that could trap the supernatural. “Problem is…” he mumbled, fingers drumming, “...if it works, it doesn’t just catch the monsters.” It could trap practically anyone, or anything, making friendly fire a high concern. Was it worth it? Was anything, really, when justice came ten years too late and smelled like blood-soaked metal?

Dante glanced around the workshop. Cables snaked across the stone floor like the entrails of some long forgotten machine, tangled and half alive. The sharp scent of solder and oil hung in the air. Tools were scattered like shrapnel across every surface. Wrenches crusted with ichor, broken lenses, rune-burned pliers, and scorched gloves. A cracked photo of his parents, young, dressed in formal Warden greys, was taped to the far wall. He'd stopped looking at it directly years ago, but today... today it pulled at him. His mother’s eyes were bright even in the black and white print, her mouth betraying a smile. His father stood just behind her, a hand on her shoulder, posture like stone, gaze sharp enough to cut through the Veil.

What would they think of him now? The boy they left behind. The boy The Bastion rebuilt from ash and grief. The young man who couldn’t stop inventing new ways to kill things faster, and more efficiently. Dante sometimes wondered if he was building things to protect humanity… or to punish the same world that took his parents. Dante exhaled and let his focus fall back toward his bench. He leaned back in his chair, stretching muscles still sore from the last hunt. Sunlight hadn’t touched the Bastion, but above the iron slat vent to his left, a faint breeze whispered through. Cold, sterile, and mechanical reminding him the world was turning. Time marched on, whether he did or not.

He clicked his pen. Drew a new schematic. Dante leaned forward, elbow knocking aside a cracked crystal energy capacitor, and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him. The old kind, because digital blueprints couldn’t capture the mess in his head. His hand moved quickly. First came the skeletal frame of the gauntlet; sleek along the forearm, plating designed to flex with movement. The housing units came next. Four chambers, each labeled with tiny, hurried shorthand: Nightshade-X, Redspire Serum, Viper-Veil, Ghostfire Dust. Every enhancement serum the Wardens had cataloged. Dante sketched microtubes coiled like veins, each one feeding into a central injector port buried into the palm. A clenched fist represented the trigger mechanism. Just one motion, and all four doses would slam into the user’s bloodstream. No hesitation. No turning back.

His pen paused, before continuing. Dilated pupils, vascular overgrowth, joint distortion. Scribble. Loss of speech. Rapid neurodegeneration. Madness. Death. A note was added to the top of the page: “Temporary godhood. Permanent damnation.”

Dante sat back and stared at what he’d drawn. From an engineering standpoint, it was brilliant. From a humanity standpoint, horrifying. The idea came from a place not of duty, or even rage, but of desperation. A Warden facing a swarm of thralls alone? A greater vampire? An entire Lycan clan? A brother in arms charging into the dark, veins glowing, voice lost to screams, a living weapon tearing through horrors like a divine plague. Not a Warden, or Man, just… It.

Dante felt the bile rise in his throat. He exhaled sharply, pen clattering to the bench. He balled up the parchment, knuckles white, and flung it across the room. The paper hit the edge of the trash bin and then bounced off and rolled beneath a shelf already drowning in blueprints of other discarded sins. “Desperation isn’t design,” he muttered, more to himself than the silence around him. “Not yet.”

Dante rubbed his eyes with ink-stained fingers and reached for a new sheet. Something practical this time. Something… humane, as he awaited a message from Commander Dane or a fellow Warden. Yet, he secretly wished the next notification would be the old dating app he’d downloaded months ago. Mostly as a joke, but it still pinged now and then, less looking for a love connection and more so to scratch that desperate itch in the middle of too many long nights alone.

The Season of the Enlightened

Cassiel and Obasi

---

_{Cassiel - Obasi
Cassiel - Obasi}

^{“What's for dinner?”}

C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R I N F O C H A R A C T E R I N F O _________________________________________________________ | Cassiel and Obasi | 25 | _________________________________________________________ | Cisgender Male (He/Him) | 6'4 | _________________________________________________________ | Bisexual/Heterosexual | Lower Class | C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S _________________________________________________________ [+] - M I S C E L L A N E O U S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Character Info Birthday: October 17, 1786, Country of Origin: England Languages Spoken: English/French/German Affiliation: Mr. Maleficar's Traveling Circus Motivation: Find an identity outside of performing/Gain more power Habits: Finger Tapping in Patterns/Avoids Eye Contact Speaking Hums When Nervous/Collects Small Shiny Objects. Hobbies: Storytelling/Shadow Puppetry and Light Shows/Gardening ► Fears -Separation from Each Other -Hurting one another -Losing Their Purpose ► Skills -Emotional Manipulation/Reading People -Sleight of Hand -Musicality & Rhythm -Craftsmanship ► Shortcomings -Unstable Emotional Regulation -Don't Fully Understand Their Powers -Prone to Obsession -Lack of Personal Boundaries ► Likes -Rainstorms at Night -Music Played Live -Protective over Children, especially Outcasts ► Dislikes -Uninvited Touch -Hollow Praise -Medical Instruments - R U M O R S R U M O R S _________________________________________________________ [+] - S E C R E T S & L I E S ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ► Rumors Though most in the outside world have never seen them in person, whispers abound of “the Eclipse Twins” — two young Enlightened men, one black and one white, who are never seen in the same room yet always arrive together. Some claim they’re lovers. Others swear they’re brothers with a forbidden bond. The most popular tale is: “One walks by day. One by night. They communicate through dreams, mirrors, or ravens. Kill one, and the other dies screaming.” No one realizes they share a single body, save for Mr. Maleficar and a select few within the circus. ► Secrets Though they appear fully connected, Cassiel and Obasi can only hear each other’s conscious thoughts when they’re both "awake" and even then, it's not perfect. Each twin has private thoughts, hidden memories, and even internal dreams that the other cannot access unless they are fully dominant for a prolonged time. Cassiel hides a recurring nightmare where Obasi is surgically removed and left behind. Obasi hides the fact that he wishes Cassiel would die so he could be free. When they were fourteen, Cassiel discovered a strange resonance in their mind, a moment when Obasi fell into a deep mental sleep after an intense use of his power. Rather than wake him or wait, Cassiel chose to remain in control, curious what full autonomy would feel like. By day three, he panicked. He couldn’t feel Obasi anymore. Day five, he cried. By day six, he nearly killed himself just to try and wake him. Obasi never remembered the time lost, and Cassiel never told him what really happened. But the guilt still claws at him whenever he looks into the mirror. The real reason they were constantly locked up is because Obasi used his powers to kill a priest that spoke of cleansing the corruption. Their mother found the corpse, calling them devils. Their father locked them in the cellar for days. No one ever spoke of it again. Cassiel believes the accidental use of his shadow powers is the sole reason the children were abandoned, not knowing the parents feared he'd kill someone just as Obasi did. -

E N L I G H T E N E D A B I L I T I E S E N L I G H T E N E D A B I L I T I E S ________________________________________________________________________________________ Umbral Marrow: Cassiel can manipulate and weaponize his own bone and flesh through shadows, forming blades, tendrils, or armor from within his body. These constructs are intangible in light but solid in darkness. He can meld into shadows and re-emerge elsewhere nearby, but doing so forces parts of his body to painfully distort and reform. Minor: Cassiel can create a vacuum of shadows that mutes all sound in a short radius for a few seconds. Weakness: The shadow-forged constructs damage his body over time, requiring healing and rest. His teleportation via shadows can dislocate bones or rupture muscles if used more than twice in rapid succession. Prismheart: Obasi can bend light into destructive, radiant beams or false images. He can blind, dazzle, burn, and create intangible mirages. When focused, he can launch concentrated bursts of hot energy capable of punching through metal or stone. Minor: He can cause his body to glow like a lantern, calming those around him or disorienting them if done too suddenly. Weakness: The more he uses Prismheart, the more intense and uncontrollable the light becomes, risking burns or blindness, even to Cassiel. Using light in a shared body causes intense internal conflict, disrupting Cassiel’s focus or causing seizures. B A C K S T O R Y B A C K S T O R Y ________________________________________________________________________________________ In 1786, a wealthy couple — a minor noblewoman and a respected scholar — gave birth to twins fused in a single body. One pale. One dark. One cloaked in shadow, the other radiant in the cradle. They were whispered to be a divine omen… or a punishment. When the boys began to manifest their powers before age six, casting unnatural shadows across entire rooms or searing sunlight through glass windowpanes, their parents were terrified. Worse, the twins would argue with each other aloud, speaking to a voice no one else could see. Obasi would scream for control. Cassiel would beg for silence. Their parents kept them locked in a darkened cellar for most of their childhood. Tutors refused to teach them. Church elders called them blasphemies of dual creation. When the twins turned ten, Cassiel accidentally enveloped a servant in living shadow. The man survived, barely, but with his mind unhinged. That night, the parents drugged the twins and left them in the woods, abandoning them with a sign nailed to a nearby tree that read: “Damnation made flesh. Do not touch. Do not listen.” Three days later, Mr. Maleficar found them. Obasi was glowing faintly in the dark forest, sobbing. Cassiel was silent, comforting his brother from within. Mr. Maleficar took them in with open arms.. He called them The Eclipse Born, and gave them a stage where their powers and pain would be seen… and sold. E X T R A S E X T R A S ________________________________________________________________________________________ Cassiel Obasi Naruto While Cassiel is dominant most of the time sporting a calm and methodical spirit, Obasi is stronger willed and able to gain greater control the longer Cassiel holds the body. This works perfectly for their performance, as it allows a quicker swap of the bodies in order to swap between their light show and shadow puppet act. This works vice versa, but since Cassiel has control most days it is much harder for him to swap at will when Obasi has control of the body.

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Dragon Age: Dark Scion

GM-PCs:

Kelf

Thalen ‘Kelf’ Syl'varin

_{31 - Male - Elf}

Class + Specialization: Rogue - Assassin Custom Traits: Veilcut Dagger: Forged from the ironbark of the Brecilian Forest and a shard of Fade touched obsidian, this dagger partially exists in both the physical world and the Fade. When Thalen strikes with it, he can phase through armor once per round, bypassing physical defenses. On a critical hit, the target is briefly disoriented by nightmarish whispers from the Fade. If used on a sleeping or unconscious enemy, the dagger severs the soul cleanly. Shadowstep: Thalen vanishes into a swirl of black mist, moving up to sixty feet to a shadowed location he can see, even through walls or barriers. Leaves behind a faint illusion of himself for one round, confusing enemies. Song of the Hollow Grove: A haunting Dalish lullaby passed down by his Keeper. When sung in Elvhen or Fade touched places, it can: Calm restless spirits and let Thalen commune with echoes of the past for brief insight. Wraithskin: As a reaction to taking damage, Thalen can fade partially out of reality gaining resistance to all damage except force or psychic. He can move through creatures and objects for one round, with the caveat of taking damage. Whispers Before the Blade: Another haunting Dalish lullaby passed down by his Keeper. Thalen can forgo attacking in order to whisper a curse chant in Elvhen, targeting one creature he can see. They have disadvantage on their next attack, while considered flanked by shadows only they can see, giving attackers advantage on them and dealing additional psychic-based damage. Story traits: (Leave this empty for now. These are rewards granted via story progression) Stats: Heavy: Defender: [0/20] Perseverance: [0/20] Hard Hitter: [20/20] Combat Sense: [0/20] Physical: Reflexes: [20/20] Stealth: [20/20] Rapid Blows: [15/20] Perception: [15/20] Magic: Power: [5/20] Pattern Weaving: [0/20] Mana Pool: [5/20] Fortitude: [0/20]

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Biography: Thalen was born beneath the boughs of the Brecilian Forest, raised by the Syl'varin clan. His Keeper taught him the old ways; the names of the gods, the songs of the Fade, and how to walk the world without being seen. His vallaslin, dedicated to Fen'Harel, was inked into his forehead when he came of age. But even among the Dalish, Thalen never fully belonged. Thalen questioned the old stories, wondered why the gods never answered, and why their people were always running. When he was seventeen, he wandered too far, drawn by curiosity and a faint whisper from the Fade. Once he returned, he found his clan massacred. The attackers wore human armor; bandits, maybe, or bored chevaliers. No one was left alive. His Keeper’s staff was broken. The Halla were butchered for sport. Thalen buried what he could and burned the rest. Thalen trained for years in the shadows of Kirkwall, and later Antiva. He became known for quiet kills, ghost like movement, and an almost spiritual detachment from his work. Some said he sang Dalish lullabies while cleaning his blades. Others said he prayed before every contract. Not to the Creators, but to the Dread Wolf. Though he never forgot his roots, he no longer clung to them. He took contracts on corrupt nobles, slavers, even templars. But never elves. Never the People. He lived by one rule: "No blood without reason." And yet... his reasons grow thinner. Thalen both reveres and resents his Dalish heritage. He keeps a few relics: a faded cloth with Elvhen runes, and a carved halla pendant. Homeland: Brecilian Forest/Kirkwall Motivation: Doesn’t believe in “good,” but instead to fight to the death for those he trusts. Even if it means fighting the Blight, if only for Delilah. Relations: He hates practically every member of The Rethari Blades given a few exceptions. He considers Vae'nra a friend, or at least the closest thing to. Diana is the only other person he considers more mature than he is, given her no nonsense attitude. No one knows the relationship between him and Delilah, but it’s more than clear that he will give his all for her and her, him. Equipment List: N/A Signature: (Type “Expllo” to agree to the rules of the RP, including giving me permission kill off your character (within reason) in order to avoid any misconceptions down the line)

Dragon Age: Dark Scion

@Randomguy

Review

Firstly, thank you for the clarification on the Qunari stance. I think this will make for very interesting conversations down the road. Now, onto the review. I thank you for the appropriate edits made to the trait section. Spell Might is fine. Storm of the Dead has potential to be a devastating ability to begin with, but I will allow it given the caveat of available corpses. Just be aware that it won't be an immediate cast and will require more cast time than his simpler abilities (though you have 15 pattern weaving, so, it's still relatively quick).

Arcane Lore is what gives me pause and I've been going back and forth on this. Instead of denying it outright, I've decided to work with you as your character concept is based around knowing multitudes of magic. The first half of the ability is fine. What gives me pause is having four ability traits, alongside eight additional options, for a total of twelve which is more than the rest of the cast and NPCs.

I will give this option to make it better align with the rest of the cast: Add the caveat that he can only use one ability from both Soul Warding and Mana Drain, once per combat encounter. This still gives him incredible flexibility as combat encounters are generally going to be quick. As for the longer encounters, it will prevent him from out spell-slinging the rest of the cast and feeling unfair.

As well, it leaves room for growth through the level up system as well as IC encounters. Every character levels up, so to say, after every mission survived. You will be able to upgrade existing abilities, so you will get to the point of being able to use more with minimum drawbacks.

If you accept this proposition, feel free to add him to the character section and get your first post up.

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@Sleepy Tani

review

I'll just respond here. Great character, good character concept. You know exactly who your character is and demonstrated through the Trait section and Stat section, that you know exactly how you want to play them.

I just want clarification on one thing: The Protector's Oath. When it states, "failing to protect them" is that in terms of the person getting hit or them falling unconscious? Either is fine, I just would like to know to avoid any misconstruction on how the ability works.

Once this has been clarified, go ahead and post your character in the "Characters" tab above and make your way to the IC.

Do you listen to music while writing?

For my personal writing, just like you (directed at OP), I tend to just go to my Liked playlist on Spotify and let anything play. I generally have no preference in artist or genre, but I will sometimes play my R&B playlist or Rock playlist specifically. As far as RP goes, it switches, and I almost always listen to specific genres or songs I feel will better help me write the scene and character.

For my character Ace, in @Mjolnir's Camp Athens roleplay, I lean more towards alternative rock and pop punk. Boston Manor, Nothing but Thieves, and WSTR are generally my go to. For my more recent characters, Cassiel and Obasi in @PatientBean's The Season of the Enlightened RP, I found myself falling back in love with Honey and the Sting. I highly recommend listening to this very lovely, and melancholic, song. For my own Dragon Age roleplay, I tend to lean towards modern day Blues. Slash's Orgy of the Damned has been on repeat, specifically.

If you couldn't tell, I really love music.