Moonberry

[The Kingdom:Fort Bael] ·:*¨❆༺ ❅ 𝔄 𝔅𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔈𝔫𝔳𝔶 ❅ ༻❆¨*:·

·:*¨❆༺ ❅ 𝔄 𝔅𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔈𝔫𝔳𝔶 ❅ ༻❆¨*:·

The courtyard was alive with motion — boots crunching, voices echoing, breath steaming in the bitter air. The newly arrived travelers stood in a crooked line beneath the shadow of the wall, a strange assortment of frostbitten limbs and stubborn hearts.

The guards watched them like wolves watching other wolves. Suspicion, not hostility. In Rotia, both were often the same thing.

The guards all chuckled lightly at the banter between the strangers. But it was quickly silenced at the sharp sound of their young lords voice.

“You’ve the look of those who’ve walked too far for comfort,”Said Lord Roderic, voice carrying across the courtyard. “You’ll find no tavern warmth here, not for free. Still—” He paused for a moment, letting his icy gaze flick across those gathered.

“—a fire and a meal can be earned, if you’re willing to work for the Bastion.”

His gaze lingered on Bromann’s grin. A faint, reluctant smile ghosted across his own lips — there and gone again.

“That one at least still remembers how to laugh. Hold onto that. You’ll need it before long.”

He turned to Andrea next, nodding slightly.

“Your friend speaks true enough. The cold dulls manners faster than fear. You’ve my pardon, all of you — for now.”

He studied the rest — the scholar’s faint tremor, the mercenary’s greedy eyes, the mage’s serene detachment. Every one of them a gamble. But then, everything in Rotia was.

Roderic motioned to the gate captain.

“See them quartered in the lower barracks. Feed them, warm them, and find out if their hands are steady enough to hold a spear. We’ll need every arm we can get before the next moon.”

The captain hesitated. “Before the next moon, my lord?”

“You’ve not seen the sea,” Roderic murmured, eyes drifting past the wall. “The ice is forming already.”

That drew silence. Even the guards looked away, as though afraid the very mention of it might summon what waited beyond the horizon.

As the travelers were ushered toward the barracks, the faint clang of a distant bell broke through the morning air — once, then twice. A warning from the western watchtower. Too soon for an alarm, too deliberate for routine.

A runner came stumbling across the yard, breath fogging violently as he bowed low before Roderic.

“My lord—! The scouts from the western ridge… they haven’t returned.”

The young noble’s jaw tightened.

“How long?”

“Three days past when they were due, sir. We sent a search party yesterday. They’ve not come back either.”

The wind moaned low against the walls. Somewhere beyond the city, a flock of black birds rose suddenly from the treeline, circling once before vanishing into the gray sky.

“Bring the council to the upper hall,” Roderic said at last. “And double the watch on the west. If the ice is forming this early, we may have visitors sooner than we’d hoped.”

Ooc

Use this round to assume you all go inside the medieval fantasy western european fortress building. To talk and eat and sleep. Enjoy some social interaction before we start into the fighting. The next post I make will end the night and begin the morning. You may post more than once, so long as it is not back to back. Meaning let someone else post after you post. As long as you don't get too specific with any npcs your character interacts with you can say they get food and find lodging and so on. If by chance one of the characters is interested in listening in/trying to get information from the young lords discussion he walked away for, that is also available. OR whatever you want. I can improvise. That is the point here.

[ Hi !! ]

Welcome luv! To Roleplayers guild!

Be safe and enjoy your roleplays! If you're ever interested in an original group rp setting based on medieval fantasy/Isekai shoot me a message!!

Hello, guild!!

Hey there! Welcome to Roleplayers Guild! I get that feeling. I went for several years without rp and I hardly ever did forum rp before.

But I've joined a group that all roleplays together in an original setting and I've been addicted for two years now.

Same character (plus a few others) it's medieval fantasy/.anime Isekai/ magically transported to a new world kind of rp.

We have an RPG system vaguely reminiscent of table top RPGs. For character balance and growth.

If you'd be interested in joining an active group where you can make your own story and share it with others, shoot me a message!

Otherwise happy roleplaying!

[Ryke - Dungeon] Languishing Large Loner

•┈••✦✩𝓔𝓿𝓲𝓮✩✦••┈•

Evie’s sneakers whispered over the black-glass floor, each step sending a faint ripple through their hundred reflections. The journey’s blur still clung to her—stale torch smoke in her throat, sleep grit at the corners of her eyes, the sweet-sour tang of the mist sitting wrong in her lungs. She rolled her shoulders once, easing the ache that had settled there somewhere between “hours” and “days.”

Roscoe eased in tight at her knee, hackles a low ridge, lips closed over a steady, warning hum. Evie kept her bat down along her thigh, grip loose, stance squared—nonthreatening, not careless. She lifted her chin just enough to meet the water-born gaze on the throne.

“You’re not wrong about one thing,” she said, voice even, carrying. “These walls will catch a lie and throw it back at you forever. So I won’t feed you one.”

She took a slow step closer; their reflections followed, a hall of echoes.

“We came for Kavros Dern. Your old boss asked for him back—alive—because there are words left between them that need saying. That’s the truth.”

Her eyes flicked to the hands and faces ghosting under the glass, then back.

“I’m a medic. I don’t pick fights I don’t have to. If you’re Kavros—or guarding him—then you know how this ends if we all dig in.” A beat. “It doesn’t have to.”

She shifted her weight, angling her body just a hair so Roscoe had the throne and the periphery both in his arc. The wolfdog’s tail stayed low, his mismatched eyes locked, waiting for a word.

“We walk you out. You breathe air that isn’t laced with grief. You get your talk. Nobody bleeds.” She tapped the bat’s cap lightly against the mirrored floor—tick—not a threat, a metronome.

“Or—” her tone never rose, “we do this the hard way, and this place remembers that, too.”

Another step. Calm. Ready.

“So I’m speaking carefully. Tell me straight: are you going to let us bring you to him alive… or are you about to make me prove I meant every word?”

[The Kingdom:Fort Bael] ·:*¨❆༺ ❅ 𝔄 𝔅𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔈𝔫𝔳𝔶 ❅ ༻❆¨*:·

_{This RP Takes place in the world of Isekai Hell. If you want to Rp with us, just message me! Check out our interest check! roleplayerguild.com/topics/196759-ise…)}

·:*¨❆༺ ❅ 𝔄 𝔅𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔈𝔫𝔳𝔶 ❅ ༻❆¨*:·

Location: The Kingdom of Rotia - "Fort Bael"
Time: Early morning
Weather: Grey skies, Cold air. Windy.

The wind carried the scent of iron and smoke long before dawn reached the northern walls.
For hours, the Bastion had lain in silence — not the peaceful kind, but the sort born from exhaustion. Frost clung to the iron spikes above the gate, and a faint hum from the furnaces deep below the streets kept the air just warm enough to smell of coal and sweat.

Then came the creak of wheels over snow.

A single wagon emerged from the fog — its frame half-buried in frost, its driver hunched and shaking. Behind it, a small group of stragglers trudged in the wagon’s wake, faces shadowed beneath their hoods. Travelers, perhaps. Or survivors of something less kind.

They were the kind of people the guards never knew what to do with this far north: not criminals, but not trustworthy either. Each had a weapon or a wound they couldn’t quite explain. Each had that look — the hollow-eyed stare of those who’d lived through something the rest hadn’t seen yet.

The winches creaked. Chains rasped. The gates of the Bastion opened, letting the strangers through with a sigh that sounded almost human. The cold followed them inside like a jealous thing.

Within the walls, life stirred to its usual rhythm. The outer streets — narrow, crooked, black with soot — smelled of ash and boiled grain. Watchmen stamped their boots beside brazier fires. Farther in, the great furnaces of the foundry pulsed like the Bastion’s heart, their glow bleeding through grates and vents to paint the fog a dull red.

It was here, in the open courtyard below the inner gate, that the strangers were halted. Guards leveled pikes, eyes wary but tired. Another dawn, another handful of souls from the frozen world beyond.

From the keep’s stairs descended Roderic Alstadt, heir to the fortress and the last son of House Alstadt’s northern branch.
He was not yet lord, though the people already looked to him as one. His father still lived — a once-great commander now too proud, too broken, and too convinced that the bastion’s walls would hold by faith alone.
Roderic knew better.

He had been awake since before dawn, inspecting ledgers that refused to balance. Shipments missing crates. Coin going unaccounted for. Supply masters swearing on their mothers’ graves that the fault lay farther south. His father, meanwhile, insisted that none of it mattered.

“The bastion endures,” the old man would say. “As it always has.”
But Roderic had seen the cracks. In the stone. In the people. In the silence that had begun to fill the chapel halls.

Now he stood at the gate as the newcomers were ushered in, his cloak half-fastened, his breath fogging the morning air.

“The gates aren’t meant for charity,” he told the captain beside him, voice quiet but carrying. “If they’ve come this far north on foot, they’ve either nothing to lose… or something to hide.”

The captain only nodded and barked orders.

The strangers were brought forward — mercenaries, wanderers, and nameless souls, drawn together by chance or misfortune. Faces foreign, accents thick, and clothes ill-suited for the northern cold. Whatever brought them here, they had arrived at the edge of the world.

From above, the Bastion itself loomed — layers of black stone, timbered roofs heavy with snow, chimneys coughing thin smoke into the pale dawn. The banners that hung from its towers were stiff with frost, bearing the mark of a lantern wrapped in thorns, the sigil of its ruling house. Beneath those colors, every wall and every man carried the same quiet exhaustion.

The people of Rotia knew what the freezing sea meant. The long winter had come early. And when the ice reached the horizon, the monsters would follow.

For now, there was only the wind and the pale light, the distant thump of a hammer somewhere in the forges, and the gaze of a young heir watching a handful of strangers in the snow.

[The Duchy: Aslan] .·:★・¨༺ 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔤𝔢 ༻¨・★:·.

☆•°♚°∵ 𝒜𝑒𝒹𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃𝓃𝒶 𝐵𝑒𝓁𝓂𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒∵°♚°•☆

When Edwin moved toward the registry, Aedrianna lingered a moment longer beneath the Pavilion’s crystalline archway. The crowd’s hum seemed louder now — laughter masking unease, confidence hiding curiosity.

She joined the registration line, smoothing the folded flyer in her hands before tucking it away again. Nearby, two aides spoke in hurried undertones over a clipboard glowing faintly with mana.

“Lord Thales still insists on starting on schedule.”
“But one of the judges hasn’t arrived. We can’t open without a full panel.”

Aedri’s attention flicked their way — her expression polite, neutral. Missing judge. The idea sank quietly into her mind like a pebble dropped into still water. She wondered, for just a moment, whether that absence was part of the strange pattern she and Edwin had been tracing since they’d found that coin.

When her turn came, the clerk looked up with a trained smile.
“Welcome to the Grand Exhibition. Name and category, please?”

“Aedrianna Belmonte. Vocal performance.”

The pen scratched across the registry tablet.
“Of course, Lady Belmonte. The east wing is reserved for the singers and performers — you’ll find the attendants there. Good luck.”

She thanked him with a nod and stepped aside — just as a small motion tugged at her hip. The pup, impatient with the confinement of her satchel, had wriggled halfway out, paws on the rim and tail flicking like a wisp of silver smoke.

“You little escape artist…” she murmured with faint amusement, lifting the tiny creature into her arms as she followed the glowing path toward the east wing.

The sound of music grew clearer with every step: voices rising and falling, the metallic ring of instruments tuning, the pulse of mana amplifiers humming beneath the marble floor.

And then she saw her.

Noelle — standing beneath the stage lights, sea-colored hair catching gold and blue reflections from the crystal sconces.

For a heartbeat, Aedrianna forgot where she was. Her breath caught, and a rush of warmth filled her chest so suddenly it almost hurt. The last time she’d seen her friend felt like another lifetime — because, in truth, it had been.

Her throat tightened, eyes stinging before she could stop them. She drew a slow breath, composing herself as best she could, the smile that followed luminous and trembling all at once.

She crossed the distance in a few measured steps, the little mana beast nestled against her arm like a piece of living starlight.

“Noelle! I’m so happy to see you again! I could hug you— can I? How have you been? It feels like it’s been… far too long.”

Her laughter was soft, carried by genuine joy that broke through the Pavilion’s polished veneer. For the first time since entering the grand event, Aedrianna looked wholly, unguardedly alive.

[The Duchy: Aslan] .·:★・¨༺ 𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔡𝔢 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔤𝔢 ༻¨・★:·.

╔══ஓ๑.·:⋆✦⋆♚⋆✦⋆:·.๑ஓ══╗

The Pavilion’s murmur wavered as Lord Edwin Stormcrest stepped away from Aedrianna and crossed the main floor toward the registration counters. His armor’s steady rhythm against marble drew glances from more than a few of the gathered nobles, their conversations dipping briefly before resuming with new whispers woven between them.

A few of the attendants behind the registration desks exchanged uncertain looks — the sort reserved for those who were unaccustomed to being addressed quite so directly. The clerk before him, a young woman in a navy vest embroidered with the Thales crest, froze only a moment under the Ryken’s sharp tone.

“L–Lord Marcher Edwin Stormcrest,” she repeated quickly, eyes darting between his armor and her registry slate. “Of course, my lord. Swordsmanship— ah— yes, that category is still open.”

Behind her, two assistants bent over a glowing array of sigils that organized participant entries, their hands trembling slightly as they hurried to record his information. The magi-light above their station flickered in rhythm with their nervous energy.

The nearby nobles, unable to resist, began trading hushed commentary.
“Ryke nobility here? How fascinating.”
“He’s a Marcher Lord, isn’t he?”
“No, no — the way he carries himself, he must be one of those mercenary-knights they hire in the borderlands.”
Polished laughter followed, but not loudly enough for him to hear.

Edwin’s mention of “Duchy folk” and “physical ability” earned one or two stiff smiles from the judges’ aides standing near the dais. Lady Avelyne Duross herself — the culinary chemist seated closest to the end of the table — glanced his way, expression unreadable, one brow faintly raised as if curious whether the knight’s arrogance was genuine or deliberate performance.

Across the hall, Noelle Nishi stepped forward in her own line. The crowd made space for her without quite meaning to — not out of disdain, but simple fascination. Her soft voice, the flowing lines of her kimono, and the faint shimmer of sea-colored light in her hair drew eyes even among the nobles too proud to stare openly.

Her politeness was disarming, and the attendant registering her name responded with almost flustered courtesy.
“Ah, a songstress — yes, of course, Miss Nishi. Welcome to the Exhibition! Music will be performing on the mid-hall stage. Please follow the luminescent guides when the announcement is made.”

As her name was etched into the luminous registry, her category — Music, Vocal Artistry — joined the swirling constellation of runes above the central display. A few of the nearby artisans turned at the word songstress, curiosity flashing briefly before returning to their work.

But even amid the chatter and motion, tension buzzed near the judges’ table. A steward whispered urgently to one of the aides; the older man’s face was pinched with worry.
“Still no word from the fifth,” he murmured. “Lord Thales insists we begin on time, but without a full panel—”

The aide frowned, lowering her voice.
“He said he’ll find a replacement. Just keep it quiet until he does.”

Their conversation disappeared beneath the swell of new arrivals. The Pavilion was beginning to fill — artisans displaying prototypes, musicians testing tones, cooks heating their enchanted stoves. Laughter mingled with mana’s hum, though an undercurrent of unease threaded through it all, like a wire pulled too tight.

One by one, names continued to glow and fade across the registry board: Stormcrest, Nishi, Belmonte.

And as the clerks scurried to catch up with the growing list, a faint chime rang through the hall — a reminder that the opening ceremony was meant to begin soon.

Still, the fifth chair at the judges’ table remained empty, its pale gold frame catching every flicker of light like a silent question no one dared to ask aloud.

The Pavilion’s noise deepened as the first wave of contestants completed registration. The faint ringing of mana chimes signaled attendants to begin directing participants toward their assigned staging areas. The Exhibition hadn’t even officially started, yet the Pavilion already pulsed with nervous energy — movement, chatter, and the quiet click of crystalline pens etching last-minute names onto glowing panels.

“Ah— yes, my lord,” the clerk said quickly, forcing a smile. “The swordsmanship entrants are being gathered near the western promenade — that way, if you please. My colleague will escort you.”

The attendant swallowed hard, clearly aware of who he was dealing with.
“R–right this way, my lord.”

The western wing of the Pavilion opened into a wide, sand-dusted ring bordered by low mana barriers. Along its perimeter, a few other contestants were already preparing. The air there was less perfumed and far more charged — the scent of oil, steel, and competition.

One of the duelists, a tall woman in ceremonial red armor, was testing the weight of a blade that glowed faintly with bound fire. Another, a lean swordsman in cream-colored attire, performed small warm-up cuts, the edge of his rapier whistling audibly through the air. Both paused as Edwin approached, their eyes flicking briefly his way — not hostile, but assessing.

From the shadows near the far end, a gruff voice called,
“Another noble, eh? Hope he’s better than the last one who strutted through here.”
The speaker — a broad-shouldered mercenary with a scar across his chin — spat to the side and began strapping his gauntlets tighter.

The attendant, sensing tension, cleared his throat nervously and bowed out of the way, leaving Edwin to take in the competitors as the mana barriers shimmered faintly, waiting for use.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the Pavilion, Noelle Nishi was guided toward the east hall — the Performing Arts Wing.

Here, the atmosphere was very different: warm lights glowed along the edges of a circular stage, and the air smelled faintly of incense and polished crystal. Rows of instruments lined the walls — everything from stringed harps and lutes to experimental magi-harmonics and wind-craft pipes powered by mana breathers.

Performers milled about, tuning, stretching, humming — each surrounded by their own small bubble of self-importance.

A pair of attendants waved her forward.
“Music competitors will take turns on the mid-stage. Warm-ups are permitted until the judges signal readiness,” one of them explained briskly, clearly repeating a rehearsed line for the hundredth time that evening.

Nearby, a tall elven woman in an elaborate gown was practicing scales that shimmered with light as she sang — her voice magically harmonized with itself, leaving faint trails of gold in the air. Another contestant, a short, sharp-eyed man with dark curls and a silver flute, watched her with irritation, tapping the mouthpiece against his palm.

When he noticed Noelle being escorted in, he gave a lopsided grin.
“New blood? Try not to make the rest of us look bad too early.”
His tone was playful but edged with condescension.

The elven singer, overhearing, simply arched a brow and resumed her glowing scales, the air humming faintly around her.

The attendants, oblivious to the undercurrent, smiled politely.
“Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Nishi. The first round will begin shortly — once all judges are in attendance.”

☆Introduction☆ Woo-hoo:3

Welcome to The Roleplayers Guild! And welcome back to rp! You can never stay away forever. Lol also you're way too young to be saying you feel old whipper snapper. Give it another ten years at least. Lol

If you're interested in group original settings or anime/Isekai stuff, I've got a group that's always recruiting. Shoot me a message if you're interested.

Otherwise happy roleplaying doll!

[Mabaroshi-Mura:Kuridan] ༺⋆⋇ เภՇ๏ Շђє ๓เรՇร ⋇⋆༻ Part 2

(This Roleplay takes place in the world of Isekai Hell. If you'd be interested in roleplaying with us, just message me! Take a look at our interest check! roleplayerguild.com/topics/196759-ise… )

ℑ𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔐𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔰

❅✧⋇⋆✦⋆⋇✧❅

Location: Mabaroshi-Mura/Nan Pass Misty Forest
Time of day: Hard to tell
Weather: It's a cold snowy mountain.

The fall ended soundlessly.

No thud. No pain. Only stillness.

The air here was thick and strange — neither cold nor warm, yet heavy enough to make each breath feel like drawing smoke through the lungs. When the haze cleared, the world revealed itself as a boundless, lightless expanse. The ground beneath their feet wasn’t earth or stone at all, but a surface so polished it reflected their shapes perfectly, as though they stood upon a vast, black mirror.

There were no walls. No horizon. Only the echo of their breathing and the faint ripple of movement beneath the mirror’s surface, like something vast turning in the deep.

Then — eyes.

High above, two immense golden orbs opened in the void, ancient and deliberate. Each blink sent ripples across the mirror world below, a slow pulse that they could feel through the soles of their feet. The light from those eyes wasn’t illumination; it was awareness, heavy and invasive, peeling through skin and thought alike.

And then—silence again.

The eyes closed.

The reflections in the mirror beneath them didn’t vanish. They moved.

A ripple traveled outward, distorting the mirrored world. Their reflections twisted, bled into shadow, then began to rise. One by one, the figures pulled themselves free of the dark glass, dragging long, whispering trails of shadow behind them.

Their shapes were familiar — too familiar — each a perfect mimic rendered in darkness. Yet when the last of the mirrored forms had taken shape, they did not face their originals. Instead, they turned toward one another, crossing paths as though some unseen hand had rearranged them.

Across from Kota stood a shadow with Yume’s shape, her form fluid and faintly glowing with golden light. The grin that touched her lips was cold and knowing.
Before Yume lingered a shadow Lenara, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable, her hair drifting like strands in deep water.
Facing Lenara was a childlike shape — Moo’s reflection, her small horns catching a sickly gleam from the unseen light above.
And in front of Moo, towering, radiant, and wrong, rose Kota’s shadow, tails coiling like streams of liquid darkness, eyes faintly gold and faintly cruel.

The air trembled.

No one moved. The only sound was a deep, rhythmic pulse — thoom… thoom… thoom — the echo of a heartbeat that didn’t belong to any of them.

Then came the whispers.

They slithered through the space like wind through broken glass, indistinct at first, then taking on voices—some familiar, others not.

"Strength without purpose only devours…"
"Masks cannot protect what refuses to be seen…"
"The cage you built is just a shield made of guilt…"
"Loneliness is not strength… it’s surrender…"

Each phrase overlapped the next, spoken in tones that might have been their own. The shadows shifted with each whisper, the faint shimmer of movement hinting at hostility—or invitation.

The golden eyes above flared open once more, flooding the mirrored world with searing light. For a heartbeat, every reflection gleamed with its counterpart’s face, warped through the rippling surface like a funhouse mirror—each glimpse revealing pain, fear, pride, and the faintest glint of recognition.

Then the eyes blinked again. The light vanished.

In the darkness that followed, something stirred.

The surface beneath them rippled as though the world itself inhaled. The shadows straightened. And though no words were spoken, the intent was clear:

The second trial had begun.

The shadow that wore Yume’s shape moved first.
Her golden eyes gleamed like candles caught in oil. long silver drilled curly hair, catching the light in all the wrong ways, dripping liquid luminance that hissed when it struck the mirrored floor.
She stopped only a few steps from Kota’s reflection, tilting her head, a smile too wide and knowing.

"How many people did you lead who never made it home, I wonder?"
"You say you fight for others... but maybe you just fight to prove you’re worth following."
Her smile sharpened to a crescent.
"Show me, Champion — do you still believe in the strength of your own hands?"

The shadow of Lenara came next — rising slow, deliberate, her reflection forming like ink blooming in water.
She said nothing at first. Just watched Yume with a strange pity that felt worse than anger.
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, trembling — like someone confessing a truth they wished they hadn’t learned.

"You pretend to forget so no one can see the cracks."
"But if no one remembers you... do you even exist?"
The shadow’s eyes flickered with green light, her lips curling faintly.
"What’s a mind made of illusions when it runs out of people to fool?"

The small horned shadow — Moo’s reflection emerged with a shuddering breath, the mirrored surface rippling around her hooves.
She stood across from Lenara, eyes gleaming faint red in the dark, her posture crouched, ready to charge.
But the tone in her voice wasn’t fury — it was hollow ache, like something that had been fighting for far too long.

"You always have to be the strong one, don’t you?"
"You protect, you lead, you tell them it’s fine… because you’re too afraid of what happens if you stop pretending you can."
The shadow leaned closer, whispering.
"What if this time, your brother isn’t the one who needs saving?"

Kota’s shadow was the last to step forward, and his movement was slow, deliberate — a reflection of power held in check.
His nine tails coiled like serpents, rippling with faint light, and every step he took left ripples of water across the mirrored floor.
He loomed over Moo, gaze piercing, but not unkind — almost reverent, as if recognizing a kindred spirit who never asked to be alone.

"You think strength means doing it by yourself."
"But real strength? It’s letting someone else fight beside you."
Then, softly —
"You’re terrified of what happens if you stop fighting. Aren’t you?"

The pulse returned — slow, deep, rhythmic.
The mirrored floor rippled again, the edges of the room fading into infinite shadow.
The golden eyes above flickered once more and vanished entirely, leaving only those four mirrored pairs facing one another across the dark.

The silence that followed was deafening.
Every breath echoed.
Every reflection seemed to lean forward.
And somewhere, beneath it all — the whisper of something vast laughing.

seren's intro~

Hey! Welcome to the Roleplayers guild! I'm more of a canine fiend myself. But I do love my black cat Doc. Dragons are pretty cool. Do you enjoy playing dragon characters?

If you're open to anime stuff, and a medieval fantasy world, I've got a group that's always open. We roleplay here on site. Shoot me a message if you're interested.

Happy roleplaying!