Oso

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Warrior
Location: Airship; Top Deck - Bar
Interactions/Mentions: Wendel @FunnyGuy, Arya @Potter, Phia @princess, Menzai @samreaper
Equipment:

equipment

☼ Tower Shield
☼ Greatsword made of Glacium (A material as hard as steel, yet formed from eternally frozen ice.)
☼ Titan Chain – A reinforced tow chain housed in his left palm, functioning as a powerful grappling hook.
☼ Aged Leather Satchel
☼ Worn but cherished scarf
☼ Maintenance Kit .
☼ Heavy-duty rations (for companions, not himself).
☼ A delicate glass figurine of a bird—an old keepsake.
☼ A locked, timeworn journal—contents unknown.

Attire:
☼ Etched and weathered plating with bronze accents.
☼ Fitted harness for carrying supplies.
☼ Worn scarf
Gold Balance: 44 gold
Injuries:
☼ None, but signs of past battle damage remain.

---

The moment Bastion’s sword found its mark and the assassin fell, his sensors flared. A presence came from behind him, and he reacted too slow.

The second attacker struck with cruel precision, a blade driving in beneath the plating between his left shoulder and neck. Sparks flared where metal met steel, and Bastion staggered, the blow digging in deep enough to compromise his balance. Pain, as he understood it, was not exactly like a wound to flesh. But still, it hurt like a bitch.

The sword still lodged in his shoulder as he turned to face his would-be assailant.

He looked at the assassin, who was already trying to dislodge his weapon for another strike.

Bastion moved faster this time. His hand clamped around the assassin’s throat, vice-tight, unyielding.

“You are finished,” he said simply, and then brought his forehead crashing forward into the assassin’s mask with a sound like stone cracking bone.

The mask split, and the face beneath it fared even worse.

Bastion did not let him fall. He pulled the blade free from his own shoulder with a heavy grunt and plunged it through the assassin’s chest, twisting once before releasing the limp body to the deck.

There was no anger in his movements… It wasn’t an act of vengeance or ferocity. Moreso it was just for the sake of certainty.

He turned quickly then, scanning the deck for his allies. His optics shifted again, drawn by motion near the bar. Wendel had fallen, but he was rising now…blood on his face, sword in his grip, shame clinging to him like smoke. Bastion saw the hesitation in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched against failure, the weight of memory in his every breath.

But still… he stood.

Still… he fought.

Bastion took that in with quiet recognition. No judgment, only understanding.

He gave the dwarf a small, solemn no. It wasn’t meant for approval, nor for pity. It was a sign of respect to a man who, through his actions, had earned it.

His attention was pulled downwards as he realized that just behind him, was Arya.

There she was, bow in hand, brave yet trembling. She had stayed to fight. He felt pride looking at her. Stepping toward her, his arm was leaking fluid from the gash in his shoulder, but his eyes never wavered.

“Arya,” he said, voice low and sure, “you have my word. I will protect you.” A flicker of something passed across his face as he spoke, something like worry, or guilt. He couldn’t help but also think of Phia in this moment, wishing that he was able to protect her too. Wherever she was, he hoped she was okay.

Fittingly enough, he then noticed Menzai.

The wolf was standing, but his shoulder was drenched in blood, much like the Warforged’s own. Bastion’s optics flickered again, concern pulsing beneath the blue light.

“Menzai is injured,” he noted quietly, mostly to himself.

He took a step toward him, but then Gears moved.

She had been quiet until now, crouched low behind the bar. But something in her had shifted. Her motions were sudden, sharp, unnatural. She stood with rigid clarity, her eyes wide and unfocused, her body trembling with old memories clawing to the surface. Parts of her were obviously malfunctioning, reacting poorly to the situation. Almost like something inside of her was crawling at the surface to get out…and by the gods it was winning.

Then she spoke.

“You picked the wrong customers to fuck with today, ass brains!!!”

She picked up a full bottle of liquor and hurled it with terrifying accuracy. It struck one of the remaining assassins square in the chest, shattering with a wet explosion of alcohol and glass.

Before the assassin could react, Gears’ right arm shifted with the hiss of steam and the grinding of hidden metal. Her fingers folded inward. Her forearm split open. Inside: a nozzle, stained with soot and age.

She raised it and fired.

A bloom of blue and orange erupted from her palm, a plume of flame that washed over the soaked assassin like a wave of hell itself. The scream was not immediate. It took a second. But when it came, it was enough to silence the deck for half a heartbeat.

The assassin burned in agony, viscerally…but it wasn’t long until he was nothing but ash and a leftover scorch mark for her to clean up later.

The aroma was thick and sickening to those who interpreted smell that way. But Gears stood unmoving, her arm still leveled, her eyes still locked in something far away. She had returned to something older than memory. Something carved into her core.

Bastion watched, but he did not stop her. His eyes then drifted back to the deck. Only two remained now.

But his sensors were still ringing. His feet did not relax. The wound in his shoulder still leaked.

“Two remaining,” he said softly. “For now.”

He looked out toward the stairwell, his optics scanning the smoke.

What if more were coming? What if they had allies? What if this was only the beginning?

His hand found the hilt of his sword once more.

He would not rest, not until they were safe.

All of them.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

Ezekiel @Helo, Scratch / Vallena @Apex Sunburn, Callandra @princess

---

Callandra stirs...not fully, but enough. Her breathing evens. The trembling in her fingers slows. A hint of color returns to her lips. She does not wake, but the worst has passed. It seems Ezekiel’s prayers have been heard. The girl who threw herself into the blast now lingers on the fragile edge of life, stable but silent, a heartbeat tucked safely beneath his hands.

And then the wall behind you shakes.

The roar of the griffon tears through the hold once more...but this time, it's different. Angrier. Harsher. Desperate.

Somewhere out there in the smoke and wreckage, the battle continues.

You hear it before you see it: the clash of steel, the scream of feathers, a shriek that splits the dark like a blade. Then a figure crashes into view...armor crumpled, twin blades slipping from broken fingers as a hooded body slams to the floor with a sickening crack.

Two Swords is dead. The griffon pounces a moment later, shredding through the wreckage like a god of winged fury. For a moment, it stands triumphant.

But the victory is short-lived. Sparkler is still standing.

He meets the beast head-on, sickle rising with the precision of ritual. The blade arcs once ...and connects. Flesh splits. Feathers erupt in a spray of red. The griffon screams again, this time in pain, wings spasming wildly.

And then Furnace steps forward.

Smoke coils around his hands, his incantation rising like a hymn to entropy. His fingers splay. The glyph at his feet flares to life...and with a deafening boom, a bolt of raw arcane force slams into the side of the cargo hold.

The hull explodes outward.

Wood splinters. Steel bends. Rivets scream. A gaping hole tears open in the ship’s flank, and with it, the air turns into a cyclone. Barrels, crates, and shattered gear are ripped from the floor, pulled into the void with a roar of rushing wind.

Everything not fastened down ...every piece of cargo, every unsecured crate, gone. Blown out into the sky in a storm of debris. The griffon howls as it’s caught in the blast, flung back with a crash of wings and vanishing into the open air.

Furnace turns, his cloak flaring like a shadow set on fire. He sees the turret. His hands begin to rise.

The runes on his palms ignite, and he starts casting ...something big.

And Sparkler?

Sparkler runs.

With a scream of fury, he activates a crackling arcane force shield from his gauntlet and begins to sprint full-force across the cargo hold. His sickle drags behind him, spewing sparks like lightning on gravel. His eyes lock on yours, blazing with rage.

“I’m tired of these fucking tricks...
Fight me, you cowards!!!”

The floor is still shaking. The elemental deep in the ship pulses once ...then again. You feel the pressure. The damage is spreading.

What do you do?

✨Beyond The Veil✨

@Helo I love him. So calm. So gentle.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

"Lucky" Locke Devlin

__________________________________________________________ Basic Information __________________________________________________________ ϯ Name | Lachlan Devlin ϯ Nickname(s) | Locke, "Lucky" Locke ϯ Age | Early 30s ϯ Gender | Male ϯ Birthday | November 2nd ϯ Race | Fae ϯ Rank/Status | "Fixer"/ Independent Contractor, Luckiest man in Halcyon Appearance __________________________________________________________ [+] ϯ Height | 6'1" ϯ Build | Lean, athletic, dancer's frame ϯ Eye Color | Auburn ϯ Hair Color & Style | Black, tousled, falling in lazy waves that sometimes obscure his fae ears ϯ Skin Tone | Pale with a natural dusky undertone that absolutely drinks in the moonlight. ϯ Notable Marks | Small rune tattoo behind right ear, scars on display from lessons learned too young ϯ Typical Clothing Style | Dark and tailored, layered clothes, fitted vests, silver jewelry that catches the eye ϯ Aura/First Impression | Magnetic, professional, dangerous in a way you don't immediately realize. And then there’s that fucking luck. Not the kind you talk about, but the kind that makes you feel like the universe always seems to tilt just a little in his favor. ϯ Voice | Low, smooth, with a faint lilting undertone of a subtle Irish accent Relationships __________________________________________________________ [+] ϯ Openness to Friendship (1-5) | 3 ϯ Openness to Romance (1-5) | 3 ϯ Romantic Preferences | No strict preference; connection over labels ϯ Current Romantic Interests | There's definitely a ghost from his past, but the night is young ϯ View on Forbidden Relationships | Rules are made to be broken ϯ Biggest Turn-ons | ✦ Confidence ✦ Sharp wit ✦ A Challenge ϯ Biggest Turn-offs | ✦ Cowardice ✦ Arrogance ✦ Betrayal ϯ Known Friends | Angel and Noah (past). A crow named Mercy, With feathers like oil-slick obsidian and eyes that glint with uncanny awareness, this is no ordinary bird. Fiercely intelligent and fiercely loyal, the crow often rides on Locke’s shoulder or shadows him from above. It can deliver messages, mimic voices with eerie accuracy, scout from high above even through magically obscured areas. She can be moody, distrusting of others, and a little greedy at times... But Mercy is his "better half" (as he jokingly calls her) and his partner in crime. ϯ Known Enemies | There's definitely individuals, but he has a working relationship with all the factions at the moment. ϯ Known Family | Deceased parents (circumstances unknown)

Psychology ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ϯ Hobbies/Interests | ✦ Cooking (trained chef but loves greasy comfort food, especially artisan pizza) ✦ Card Tricks and Practical Magic Tricks ✦ Mixology ✦ People-watching ϯ Likes | ✦ Pizza ✦ Thunderstorms ✦ Nightclubs ✦ Sweet whiskey ✦ Live Music ϯ Dislikes | ✦ Owing Anyone Anything ✦ Disloyalty ✦ Feeling trapped ✦ Being touched without permission ✦ Fae food ϯ Fears | ✦ Becoming a pawn ✦ Feeling like he's caged ✦ Oblivion ✦ Lack of Control ϯ Habits | ✦ Laughing at authority (Sometimes that Fae nature gets even him) ✦ Irish Goodbyes ✦ Runs his thumb over the band of his rings or twirls a playing card between his fingers when he's idle ✦ Leaves food and other offerings for crows ϯ Vices | ✦ Gambling ✦ Insomnia ✦ Expecting the worst of people ✦ A healthy dose of self-sabotage in interpersonal relationships Core Motivation To become so indispensable, so infuriatingly skilled, that no one can own him. Freedom first. Everything else is negotiable. Personality Overview Locke is a study in beautiful contradictions. Magnetic but guarded, playful yet calculating, seductive yet stubborn to the bone. Beneath the easy smiles and practiced, professional charm is a man who refuses to bow to fate or favor. Loyalty from him is a precious thing...and when given, it is absolute. Betray it once and you'll never know it from him again. He is a man who in some ways is playing against his nature. The Fae humor, wonder, and chaotic energy that he once held in spades has been tempered and forced into submission in pursuit of his professional ambitions, but it's all still there somewhere deep and bits and pieces find their way out now and again. People call him “Lucky” Locke. Some with awe. Some with suspicion. He’s walked out of places no one else did. Survived a hit that should’ve taken him too. Cards fall right. Dice land how he needs. The right door always seems open at just the right time. No one can explain it, and Locke never bothers to try. He just flashes that crooked grin, sips his drink, and lets the whispers grow louder.

Background ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ϯ Current Occupation | Fixer / Independent Contractor (Corpse Disposal, Crime Scene Cleanup, Bounty Hunting, Tracking) ϯ Level of Schooling | Streetwise with a background in private schooling ϯ Past Occupations | Runner, "cleaner", information broker ϯ Socioeconomic Status | Professional Class; he's the best in the city at what he does, and people pay him well. ✦ Locke Devlin – Full Backstory ✦ Lachlan Devlin was born into privilege, but not the kind that came with crowns or coronations. His family, the Devlins, were powerful because they were useful. Their skills sharp, their loyalty even sharper. For years, his parents worked in close alliance with Magnus Corvane, the infamous patriarch of the Corvane family, handling delicate matters most wouldn't dare touch. It was not friendship, exactly, but something near it… a bond forged through blood, risk, and whispered trust. Locke grew up alongside Magnus’s two adopted children, Angel and Noah, closer to them than he ever was to any cousin or classmate. They were a trio stitched together at the seams, partners in every scraped knee and secret rebellion. Where one went, the others followed. In those golden years, Lachlan believed that nothing could ever come between them. The Corvanes were family in all but name. That’s why his heart was so broken when it all changed. When the falling out between Magnus and his parents came, it wasn’t loud. It was a slow severing, a cold, merciless retreat. His parents tried to soothe him with half-truths, murmuring something about a business dispute, but Locke was no fool. Even then, he could taste the bitterness behind their words, sense the personal betrayal that curdled something deeper than profit margins. Whatever it was, it was enough to tear his life apart. One day he had a home woven between the Corvane halls and his own, and the next, he had nothing. Forced to sever ties with Angel and Noah, Locke was left to navigate a cold, hollow existence without the only people who had ever really felt like home. And fate wasn’t finished with him yet. Without the shield of Corvane influence, the Devlins became easy prey. It took less than a year before his parents were dead… slaughtered in a hit so brutal that whispers of it still linger in Halcyon’s darker corners. Officially, no one knew who was behind it. Unofficially, Locke learned young that justice was only a story mortals told themselves to sleep at night. He should have died with them. The killers missed him by minutes. Some say he was out for a walk. Others say he was sick that day and stayed behind. There are half a dozen versions of how he survived, and Locke has never confirmed a single one. But the whispers started then…quiet mutterings that Lachlan Devlin didn’t just escape death… he outran it. Slipped past it like a shadow ducking under a blade. People started calling it luck. And in Halcyon, luck is more frightening than magic. Magnus Corvane had promised once to protect his own. And when it counted most, he hadn’t. Locke never forgot, and he never fully forgave either. Afterward, the crows came. Not in swarms. Not dramatically. Just… one at a time. Perched on rooftops when he passed beneath. Waiting on windowsills like black statues. Silent witnesses that trailed him like omens. At first, he ignored it. Then he started leaving them scraps. Tokens. Little offerings. And eventually, one of them stayed. He named her Mercy. Or maybe she named herself…he’s never been sure. He just knew it was her name. Either way, Mercy became his shadow. She perches on his shoulder now more often than not, and she’s far too smart for a bird. She watches everything. Remembers. Repeats what she shouldn’t be able to. He refers to her as “His better half”. Left with nothing but his luck and his Mercy, Locke did the only thing he knew how: he rebuilt himself. Brick by brutal brick. In the raw years that followed, he trained his body until it was a weapon. He honed his mind until it could cut through the densest of lies. He shaped his glamour until it became something subtle and devastating, completely under his control. And the luck never left him. Cards fell right. Blades missed. Jobs went sideways and still ended in his favor. People started calling him Lucky Locke…some with awe, others with fear. He never confirmed or denied a thing. Just flashed that smile, tilted his head, and let the world wonder. He set his sights on becoming indispensable… not to one faction, but to all of them. A fixer with no allegiance but his own survival. A ghost who could walk through every door and every hallway because no one could afford to throw him to the gutters like his parents had been. He had his luck, sure, but he knew that luck always runs out eventually. And so, he wanted to be even more than his supernatural good fortune. If he was useful enough, sharp enough, essential enough, he would never again be at anyone’s mercy. No king, no clan, no lover would ever hold him on a leash. He would be owned by no one. The heir to a kingdom of one. And if fate had a problem with that… it would learn, like everyone else, that “Lucky” Locke Devlin belonged to no one but himself.

Race-Specific Questions ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ✦ Race info ▸ Fae ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ϯ Element Affinity | Shadow ϯ Glamour Specialty | Glamourweaving ϯ Views on Mortals | Wary affection; admires their hope ϯ Views on Vampires | Necessary evils; some respect, no trust ϯ Views on Lycan | Skeptical but respects their freedom ϯ Views on Fae | Has an appreciation for his people but no attachment, HATES their food Miscellaneous ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ ϯ Theme Song | "Control" by Halsey ϯ Favorite Food | Pizza; it's all about the perfect crust ϯ Favorite Animal(s) | Crows, foxes ϯ Favorite Music Genre | Dark indie rock ϯ Favorite Haunt | A neon-lit rooftop bar overlooking Halcyon ϯ Signature Weapon | The House Deck – a magically enchanted deck of playing cards bound to Locke’s fae magic. Each suit has a unique effect, from illusions to elemental bursts to piercing blades. Some cards never run out. Others explode. The deck only responds to him. How His Cards Work ♠ Spades – Precision & Piercing (The Blades) These cards become razor-sharp projectiles when thrown, capable of slicing through armor or pinning enemies to surfaces. They hum with kinetic energy, seeking vital points. He seemingly never runs out of Spades. • Effect: Solidify into sleek throwing daggers midair • Bonus: Can curve slightly mid-throw, guided by his intent • Ace of Spades: Automatically targets the most vulnerable point it can reach ________________________________________ ♥ Hearts – Illusion & Influence (The Glamours) These cards bend perception, tapping into Locke’s glamour magic to confuse, distract, or entrance. • Effect: Create lifelike illusions—copies of Locke, false movements, phantom sounds • Bonus: Can be used to cloak him in misdirection • Queen of Hearts: Creates a full-bodied glamour that mimics Locke for up to 3 minutes, whereas the standard hearts version of the mimic only lasts for 10 seconds. ________________________________________ ♣ Clubs – Force & Disruption (The Breakers) The heaviest hitters. These cards explode on impact with raw kinetic energy or disarming force. • Effect: Release concussive bursts that knock back or daze targets • Bonus: Can break enchantments or stagger magical constructs • Jack of Clubs: Unleashes a radial shockwave around Locke ________________________________________ ♦ Diamonds – Elemental Power (The Wilds) Infused with primal Fae energy, these cards trigger elemental effects: fire, ice, lightning, or shadow. • Effect: Explode in a burst of elemental force depending on Locke’s mood or chosen intent • Bonus: He can stack the cards for chain reactions or area control • Ace of Diamonds: Unleashes a storm of elemental daggers in a wide arc ________________________________________ Jokers (2 Total – The Wild Cards) These are unpredictable. Even Locke doesn’t know exactly what they’ll do until played, but the results are always dramatic. • Effect: Randomized outcome with high reward / high chaos • Possibilities: o Reverse gravity in a small radius o Temporarily freeze a target in place while the world continues around them o Turn an enemy’s weapon to smoke o Summons a murder of crows to wreak havoc in an area ________________________________________ Deck Name The House Deck – A one-of-a-kind creation, bound to Locke’s fae signature. The cards don’t respond to anyone else. ϯ Preferred Vices | Gambling, Whiskey, Carnal Pleasure ϯ Pet Peeve | Being underestimated ϯ Guilty Pleasure | Reality Cooking Shows

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

---

Time: Evening
Location: Banquet Hall
Mentions / Interactions: @FunnyGuy Alexander, @princess Charlotte, @Tae Kalliope, @samreaper Kazumin, @princess King Edin & Queen Alibeth, @SilverPaw Prince Wulfric, @Helo Callum, @ReusableSword Roman, @JJ Doe Count Fritz

---

Cassius stood there, fire in his veins, still tasting the bitterness in his mouth that both Roman and Callum had left there. And then Alexander’s hand touched his arm.

It was the gaze that did it. Not the words. Not the false sweetness that poured out of the man's mouth like syrup over rot. It was that look. That heavy, suffocating look that pressed into his mind like a weight on a bruise. It was something he had seen before…felt before. Not just once, but for what felt like a lifetime some years ago. He knew that feeling all too well.

For a heartbeat, Cassius fought it. He could feel the beast in him claw against invisible chains, but then it settled…slowly, inexorably, it settled, like mud dragged down into deep water.

The anger did not vanish, but it did dull. Quite a bit in fact. His shoulders eased, fists loosened at his sides. The frustration still smoldered in his chest, moreso now that he begun to realize what was happening to him…but it no longer screamed for release. Because it couldn’t, even if it wanted to. Alexander’s tactic had worked.

It clicked in his mind, cold and sharp. He had been compelled.

The realization burned hotter than the fury had, but there was no space to react to it. No room to do anything at all, because that was the moment Charlotte moved.

He barely caught sight of her before she was there. No words, no hesitation, only arms wrapping around him. Soft and trembling.

Her head rested lightly against his chest, and the world around him seemed to blink out of existence. The gasps, the murmurs, even the sharpening gazes from nobles around them. None of it mattered. Only her.

The hug was brief but it hollowed him out, scraped something raw and aching to the surface that he had buried deep, and before he could even process it, before he could even really hug her back, she was gone again. Slipping away like smoke between his fingertips.

Cassius turned his head just in time to catch Kalliope’s eyes, and the look she gave him was not teasing. It was not jealous. It was worry. Real, worry. The kind that said she had seen the same thing he had felt. That Charlotte’s touch had not been a whim. That something was wrong. His gut twisted sharply.

Before the thought could take root too deep, a voice broke into his periphery.

“Howdy do there...Cassius, is it?”

Cassius blinked, dragging his focus over to the bright-haired farmboy who had somehow ended up next to him. Kazumin was smiling, cheerful as ever, offering a handshake like nothing had just happened. Like Cassius hadn’t just thrown his future into the jaws of royal ire.

Still, Cassius reached out and took the hand, feeling the firm grip, the grounding reality of it. He let the boy ramble, let him tease about Charlotte’s hugs. It was a lifeline, in a way. A brief, normal thing in a night that had turned inside out. He didn’t speak really, but he wish he could have. He would have to make it up to the man another time.

And then Kazumin was called away, leaving only the fading warmth of his handshake and the heavy weight of the hall pressing back in around him.

He was just sinking back into his seat when the king’s voice cut through the air.

“You forget yourself, Lord Damien. ”

Cassius barely lifted his eyes. He heard the mockery beneath the cold. The threat wrapped in the words was perhaps subtle to some, but this was not his first incident with royalty. He caught the queen’s glare too, it may have been the deadliest amongst them all.

They wanted him to flinch, but he didn’t. He never did.

He stood tall, a slow breath leaking from his nose, the calm still unnaturally wrapped around his bones from that fucker’s undead powers, a problem for another day. Let them rage, let them posture. His heart, his focus, and his worry was somewhere else entirely now.

Prince Wulfric’s voice followed soon after, cool and deliberate.

“There is no need for threats, Lord Damien. If you seek to defend your sister’s honor, you are free to challenge Lord Ravenwood to a duel... ”

Cassius flicked his gaze to him at last, not with anger, but with something almost pitying.

A duel. He could have accepted it. Hell, he could have stood up and made it official in front of the whole damn court. But what would it prove? His fight was not at this table. His fight was the girl who had just hugged him like she was drowning.

Perhaps it was his concern for Charlotte, perhaps it was the compel…most likely though it was some combination of the two, but he words Wulfric offered slid off him like rain off oiled cloth. He turned his head away without even answering the spoiled, royal prick.

And that was when Fritz’s voice cut through, calm and measured.

“You do look unwell, Lady Charlotte. Would it help if Lord Cassius Damien escorted you to the infirmary? ”

The Count was right, Cassius had seen it now.

The paleness beneath her blush. The way her hands trembled when she thought no one was watching. The slight unsteadiness of her steps. The way her gaze had started to glass over, distant and dazed.

Charlotte was not alright. Something was wrong, very wrong.

He could feel the court watching him, feel the weight of their stares, their judgment, their thinly veiled delight at the show he had made of himself.

Let them all watch. Let them whisper because they have nothing better to do with their privileged existence.

Cassius Damien had bigger things to worry about tonight than politics. He made his way toward her without hesitation, every instinct in him coiling tighter with each step. When he reached her, Cassius took her hands in his and leaned down to meet her eyes.

“Lottie…” His words so gentle compared to the way he spoke to the black sheep prince Callum and whatever the hell Lord Ravenwood was supposed to be. “I believe it would best if both of us stepped out for some fresh air. It’s beginning to get a little stuffy in here, it seems.” Somehow, despite it all, he managed a kind smile. One like she had seen from him the night before. Leaning in, his voice lowered to a volume that was only loud enough for her ears alone. “Let me help you, please.”

Beyond The Veil Interest Check

Contemplating life and death and also perhaps joining this game. 👌🏻

@Mole

This is such a mood and exactly why you should join us 🤪🤪🤪

Beyond The Veil Interest Check

Guys I'm so excited that we're kicking this off!!!!!!!!

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

---

Time: Evening
Location: Banquet Dining Hall
Mention: @JJ Doe Hala, @Tpartywithzombi Ariella
Attire: A Suit Fit For A True Artist

---

Milo's hand remained where Hala had placed it, the weight of their touch fitting so naturally into the crook of his arm it might have been stitched there. Their voice curled through the air like smoke from the finest of bespoke blends that Sorian’s Gentleman’s Cigar Shop had to offer, thick with heat and indulgence, and Milo breathed it in with visible pleasure.

“You make it terribly difficult to stay humble,” he said, the words soft and amused, delivered like a secret shared between them. “Good thing I’ve never been particularly fond of modesty to begin with.”

He let his gaze drift lazily across the room, a man surveying a canvas, not with detachment but with wonder. There was no rush to leave Hala’s side. They were a vision, one daring the world to prepare for their trouble, and he took his time admiring the boldness of the lines and the richness of their colors as though they were one of his masterpieces.

But then something caught his attention.

A sound, a hush, a note shifting in the harmony of the room. His head tilted, just slightly. His eyes moved, not searching but already knowing where to look… Because it wasn’t the first time he had looked her way that evening.

He saw Ariella.

The wine tipped, a crimson stain blossoming across polished porcelain and delicate silk, and her gasp fluttered up like a lace curtain stirred by the wind. But beneath the performance, beneath the soft, sweet cooing and fluttering fingers, Milo saw something raw. Something sharp and silent and absolutely breathtaking.

The corner of his mouth lifted, though his smile had changed. It was still warm, still beautiful, still lit from within by whatever strange sun seemed to shine through him. But now there was weight behind it. The kind of weight found in oil paintings that stare back at you long after you’ve turned away.

“Forgive me,” he murmured to Hala, his voice still dressed in silk but touched now by something more akin to need. “Something divine is happening just across the room. And I do so hate to miss the moment history begins.”

His hand slipped from theirs with a softness that bordered on reverent. His fingertips lingered as if reluctant, but he began to pull away from them before turning back to speak.

“Don’t you dare believe this is goodbye,” he said, his smile returning in full as he looked back at them one last time. “I will see you again, lovely. Perhaps in a place and time that belongs only to us.” He raised Hala’s hand to his lips and pressed a decadent kiss to their flesh, one laced with the promise of more to come.

Then he moved back toward his seat, the crowd parting for him not just out of courtesy but as though they had no choice. Each step he took was pulling the thread and closing the distance between himself and the chaotic beauty of Ariella. As he walked, his mind drifted to enjoy how deliciously close they had gotten that morning at his art gallery…and how close he wish and planned to get to her tonight.

❗❗❗❗❗FLASHBACK ALERT❗❗❗❗❗

Flashback: Ariella & Milo at the Art Gallery

Milo St. Claire moved through the gallery like a man perfectly at home within his own kingdom. He was neither hurried nor idle, his pace a languid stroll designed to be observed. Every now and then, he exchanged pleasantries with guests who called for his attention, offering indulgent smiles and cryptic witticisms that left them wondering if they had just been complimented or gently mocked. His presence was magnetic, drawing admirers into his orbit with little more than a glance, a smirk, a knowing tilt of his head.

He thrived in the admiration, of course. But admiration was predictable...tedious, even. What thrilled him was something rarer, something unexpected.

And then he saw her.

Ariella Edwards, standing alone before a painting, her posture poised yet subtly tense, as if caught in the midst of an unraveling thought. The dim candlelight played along the soft curls of her hair, casting fleeting glimmers upon the pale blue silk of her gown. She looked polished. Lovely, even. Not at all like the wild, sharp-edged girl he was used to seeing tracking dirt across marble floors with barely a care.

A slow, amused smile unfurled across his lips.

“Curious.” The word was barely spoken, more of an exhale to himself, yet he savored it like the first sip of fine wine.

He didn’t move immediately. Instead, he observed.

Ariella shifted, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting someone to be there. But there was no one. Not yet. The subtle way her hands clasped together betrayed a flicker of unease. Had she heard something? Felt something? He wondered what had unsettled her. It pleased him, that faint tension—an unsolved mystery wrapped up in silk and candlelight.

Milo could resist the pull no longer.

He crossed the room with the grace of a man that knew better than to let its presence be felt too soon. By the time Ariella might have noticed him, he was already beside her, his presence like a whisper against the skin...felt before heard.

“My, my… I believe the world has shifted slightly on its axis.” His voice was a low purr, rich with amusement as his hazel eyes flicked toward her, Ari's gaze shifting towards the familiar voice. “Lady Ariella Edwards, in soft curls and shimmering silk? Tell me, is there some divine intervention at play, or have I been granted the singular pleasure of witnessing a rare transformation?”

He turned his gaze to the painting before them, studying it with a slow, deliberate tilt of his head. “Though, if I had to guess…” A smirk played at the corner of his mouth. “You look like a woman who’s already been confronted with something far more interesting than brushstrokes and oil.” Her eyes fell towards the floor as she glanced back up looking at him with an unimpressed expression.

He finally met her eyes, his expression unreadable yet entirely knowing. He hadn’t forgotten the way she had glanced over her shoulder moments ago. He was giving her the chance to answer...or to deflect, which might be even more fun.

Either way, she had his attention. And Milo St. Claire’s attention was never given lightly.

Ariella exhaled sharply through her nose as he pulled her from her trance, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as if she could somehow shake off the discomfort clinging to her like the cursed fabric of her gown. She tugged at the silk near her ribs, scowling as it refused to give even an inch. “If the world has shifted, it’s only because I’m stuffed into this godforsaken dress, and the universe is laughing at me.” she huffed. “My mother insisted.” she added.

She turned her sharp gaze on Milo, eyes flashing with irritation, though whether it was directed at him or the gown was debatable. “And don’t you dare call it a transformation. That implies I had a choice.” She huffed, lifting the hem of her skirt just enough to peek down at her shoes with barely concealed disgust. “She insisted I wear shoes.” Her toes clacked together before her hem fell.

Milo hummed low in his throat, a sound rich with amusement, indulgent as a man sipping aged wine. “Shoes,” he echoed, tasting the word like it was something foreign, something distasteful. “My condolences. I had no idea your suffering was so profound.”

Ari looked down at her feet nodding as she continued to pull at her dress.

He studied her, the way she tugged at her gown like it was strangling her, the sharp edge of irritation in her voice, the way she loathed the very fabric wrapped around her body. The sight of her in silk and candlelight was lovely, of course...he was an artist, he would know. But it wasn’t her. No, Ariella was wild and sun-warmed and always on the verge of turning into something unpredictable. This? This was a charade.

Milo took a deliberate step closer, close enough that he could lower his voice to something only she would hear. Ari’s eyes flicked up as he caught her attention. “And tell me, wild thing...what does it feel like? To be caged like this?”

His eyes flickered downward, tracing the hem of her dress, the place where silk concealed the insult of her shoes. “Is it unbearable?” He exhaled through his nose, a slow, exaggerated thing, as if sharing in her distress. “Wouldn’t it be such a tragedy if…oh, I don’t know...your laces mysteriously came undone? If those dreadful, oppressive shoes were to slip right off your feet in the middle of this very fine, very public event?” Ari’s eyes fell back down to her feet as she looked at him slightly confused.

His lips curled, his voice a velvet promise. “You’d be an absolute scandal. A barefoot menace, but we both know it wouldn’t be for the first time.” A smile started to creep on her lips as a light seemed to perk from her eyes.

Milo pressed his fingers together, as if considering something very carefully, then nodded once, as if he had reached a decision. “Yes. That settles it. I must steal them.”

His gaze found hers, gleaming with wicked delight. “Not for you, you understand. No, no. This is for art. For the integrity of the evening. The aesthetic of it all.” He sighed dramatically. “A lady, undone by the cruelty of social expectations...ravishing.” “Scandalous..” she whispered softly as the smile still sat on her lips.

And then, as if to prove just how deadly serious he was, he moved. A shift, fluid and precise, the sort of grace that made him so magnetic. One moment he was beside her, the next...just behind, an artist circling his subject. His hand ghosted just above the delicate fabric at her back, never touching, never needing to, his voice a whisper at her ear.

“Say the word, Ariella.” her breath caught in her chest as his voice caressed her ear like an unspoken secret.

It was a dare. A temptation wrapped in silk and wicked amusement. “Say the word, and I’ll make them disappear. You won’t even feel it happen.” Her lips parted to speak but the words didn’t seem to want to come out.

Then, as though this entire exchange had never occurred, as if he had not just offered to commit perfectly executed shoe theft for the sake of her comfort, Milo pivoted lazily to face the painting she had been studying before his arrival.

“Though I must ask, Ariella,” he mused, his tone softer now, more thoughtful. “Was it truly the art that held you captive just now? Or was it something else? Given that you already had the pleasure of witnessing most of these pieces the other night, I imagine its more the latter.”

His gaze slid to hers, searching, gleaming with something far more dangerous than charm. “You looked as though you had seen a ghost.” Her eyes fell down to her feet for a moment before looking back up at him with a soft smile disappointed that her shoes were still present. “I thought I heard someone call my name but I think I misheard it.” she played off the strange events she had been experiencing.

“Your event appears to be doing very well, you must be proud.” she offered him an encouraging smile.

Milo’s eyes flicked toward the glittering crowd for the briefest moment before returning to her with a lopsided smile.

“Pride?” he echoed, voice smooth as ever. “No, my darling. Pride is for politicians and fathers.”

He leaned in just slightly, the scent of expensive cologne and something darker clinging to him.

“I am… entertained.” A pause. “Which is far more difficult to achieve.”

His gaze drifted out over the crowd, eyes half-lidded as he watched them sip, laugh, admire...all so beautifully choreographed, as if someone had handed out a script at the door.

“They flock in,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else, “draped in jewels, smelling of citrus and desperation… all hoping to feel something profound, if only for a moment.” Ari’s eyes watched as the onlookers of his work continued walking around more interested in their conversations than the art.

He tilted his head, watching a man tilt his wine glass just-so before gesturing at one of Milo’s more chaotic pieces with an expression that suggested he’d just solved a great philosophical riddle.

“Most of them don’t understand the work...not truly. They parrot what critics say. They latch onto whatever phrase sounds clever enough to repeat at a dinner party.” He smiled, sharp and idle. “Sheep in silk.”

Milo let out a soft hum, swirling the wine in his glass though he hadn’t taken a sip in some time.

“But every now and then… someone lingers. Someone looks, not at the paint, but through it. They tilt their head, narrow their eyes. You can see the moment the image begins to unravel them.”

His voice dropped, eyes catching the flicker of gold against candlelight.

“Those are the ones I watch. The ones I collect.” Her attention turned to Milo as she noted his collection with a curious expression.

He paused, a lazy flick of his gaze following a woman as she laughed too loudly beside a canvas she didn’t even glance at.

“As for the rest? They’ll still spend more than the lifetime earnings of a common man just to hang one of my pieces above their fireplace. So they can say they own a Milo St. Claire. That’s all they want...proof they were here.”

She kept quiet for a moment, her eyes glancing back towards the painting she was admiring, her eyes fixated on its intricate details and brush strokes. “People often don’t see the beauty in things they don’t understand.” she said softly. The words seemed to resonate with her more than I think she wanted to admit.

“Do you not find that it destroys the artistic vision behind your works when people merely want to own something to status? To disregard the idea or thought behind your paintings and simply want to collect them like another piece of furniture?” she turned to look at him curiously.

“Does it destroy the vision?” he repeated softly, his gaze returning to her with something just a touch more focused, more intimate, as though her question had stirred a note he hadn’t expected to play tonight. “No, my dear Ariella... it completes it.”

He took a step closer, not enough to crowd, but enough that the air between them began to shift, charged with something heavier than banter, heavier even than art. His voice, smooth as silk but low now, laced with intent.

“You see, the tragedy of it all... the absolute poetry... is that they never understand it. Not truly. They fawn, they covet, they spend obscene amounts of money just to drape meaning on their walls like jewelry around the neck of a corpse. And yet... they still feel something. A stirring. A need. They can’t explain it, and they don’t try. But it’s there. And that... is where the art lives. Not in their understanding, but in their hunger.” Ari’s attention focused on Milo as he explained, his voice soft and smooth in its delivery that she felt herself relax in his presence. She nodded slowly in understanding of his views, her mind comparing it to people’s actions within the hierarchy of society and people’s reach for power.

His eyes never left hers now, the warmth in them beginning to burn slow and low, like an ember caught beneath fine ash. “They want to possess it because it resists possession. Just like you.” Ari adjusted herself slightly as she allowed those words to sit with her.

A pause. A shift. His gaze flicked, barely, toward the nearby guests…two women pretending to admire a sculpture while clearly eavesdropping, a gentleman whose interest in the painting seemed to pale in comparison to his sideways glances in their direction. Milo’s smirk returned, lazy and knowing.

“And of course,” he murmured, “now we’ve given them something new to speculate over. I imagine we’re the most compelling installation in the room.” Ari stopped to look around them, catching the sideways glances and the women who were too clearly interested in their conversations. “I don’t believe ‘we’ is the correct usage here. I imagine it is you they are so interested in, and here I am monopolising all the time of the great artist.” she said with a soft laugh as her face lit up briefly.

He turned back to her fully, and this time when he stepped in, there was no mistaking the change. The temperature of the space between them grew warmer, more intimate, as though the walls of the gallery had receded entirely and left them in their own private exhibit. His voice dropped to a whisper, velvet and wicked.

“But conversations like this?” he breathed, “They deserve candlelight without an audience. Rooms where the walls don’t echo with envy.” Ari regarded Milo nervously as the distance and tone of his voice didn’t go unnoticed.

His fingers lifted, almost absentmindedly brushing the edge of her sleeve with the lightest graze, nothing more than a passing thought given form.

“Come with me.” The words weren’t a question, not really, but neither were they a command. They were an invitation wrapped in the kind of charm that unraveled caution thread by thread. The charm appeared to work on Ari as she looked around for a moment, slightly shocked at the invitation. “There’s a room upstairs, quiet and dim. No portraits. No pretense. Just you, and me, and all the truth you’re so eager to uncover.”

And then, with a look that could melt secrets and corset laces alike, he offered his hand… not outstretched like a prince, but slightly turned, waiting, as if she might meet him halfway. Her eyes dropped to his hand, glancing back up to his expression that created a nervous smile.

“Unless, of course...” A flick of his brow, a slow curve of his lips. “You’ve grown rather fond of your cage.”

Her eyes widened, just barely—a subtle flicker of hesitation that rippled through her expression. Her hand lingered in the air, frozen between instinct and memory. Her cage… The thought echoed in her mind like a haunting memory. A flash of cold stone and iron bars surged forth: the cell where she'd spent the night, Cal's quiet presence a fragile comfort amidst the gloom. But deeper still was the other cage—the invisible one her mother had spent years locking her inside. Expectations. Control. Silence.

She drew in a slow breath, steadying the tremble in her fingers. Milo noted the tremors with a curious glance. Then, deliberately, she reached out, her arm slipping through his with a quiet grace, every movement laden with intent.

“I despise cages,” she murmured, her voice a thread of silk wrapped in steel. For a heartbeat, her eyes darkened—then just as quickly, the shadow passed, leaving only the faintest trace behind. The onlookers shifting with envy as their whispers grew louder with small gasps escaping them.

“Good,” he murmured, his voice brushing the shell of her ear like a secret. “Because I was beginning to worry this conversation might end with you still behaving.”

He led her through the crowd like a man strolling through a dream, perfectly unhurried yet utterly in command. Guests parted for them without realizing why, drawn aside by nothing more than his presence and the invisible shift in the atmosphere that trailed behind them. The whispers only grew louder, of course...but Milo wore them like cologne.

His fingers adjusted, brushing lightly along her forearm as he leaned in, just slightly.

“I won’t take you far,” he promised, though there was a glint in his eye that suggested otherwise. “Just beyond the frame... behind the canvas. Where the colors bleed a little brighter, and no one’s watching to ruin it.”

As they neared the stairwell, he glanced down at her with a lazy smile that didn't reach his eyes.

“Unless you’re hoping to be caught.”

And just before they vanished from the gallery floor, he added...almost idly, as if it were a throwaway thought:

“You say you despise cages, Ariella… but tell me.” He tilted his head, his voice low and molten. “How do you feel about ropes or chains?”

❗❗❗❗❗FLASHBACK ALERT❗❗❗❗❗

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

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Time: Evening
Location: Banquet Hall
Mentions / Interactions: @Apex Sunburn Sjandehk @Tae Kalliope @princess Charlotte / Calbert @Helo Callum @ReusableSword Roman @Tpartywithzombi Ariella

---

Cassius moved through the hall beside Kalliope, her hand in his, the earlier heat of their exchange still lingering on his skin. But his gaze was elsewhere now, drawn without permission.

It had started as just a glance, but soon became his entire focus…Charlotte.

She sat at her table, wine glass untouched, fingers knotted tight in her lap. And beside her, too damn close, was Sjan-dehk. The man leaned in, speaking low, saying god knows what. Comforting her when he couldn’t. The man’s fingers touched her neck, just under the jaw, and Charlotte… she didn’t pull away. She let him, and even smiled at him.

Something shifted behind Cassius’s eyes. It wasn’t anger, not quite. But something not too far from it. Thicker, like tar in the lungs.

He didn’t say a word, but it didn’t matter because that’s when he heard them.

“You could say that something meant to be a gentle caress out of passion could have been a bit faster than one would like sometimes…”

The words slithered through the air like the most unwelcomed of bullshit. He froze mid-step, his jaw tightening before he even fully understood what was happening.

Every word Roman spoke after that only made it worse. The smugness. The smile in his voice. Like what he said wasn’t acid poured onto Violet’s skin.Then came Calbert, and the quiet dropped away.

“You have just informed a room full of royals and dignitaries that my daughter… was struck by you… And—how did you phrase it? Ah yes, ‘gentle caress out of passion.’”

Cassius turned slightly, his body shifting to face the table without thinking. The sound of the fork being set down was too calm. Too deliberate. He could feel the heat behind it. His father’s voice rolled out like thunder at the beginning of a deadly storm.

Cassius didn’t move yet, but that’s when Violet spoke.

“I find myself less interested in choosing between the two of them…”

Her voice was quieter than Calbert's, but it rang louder in his chest. She wasn’t afraid, nor meek. She was absolutely steady in her words.

Then came Kalliope’s voice to meet his ears.

“You should go stand beside her.”

He blinked, gaze turning to her.

“She might not ask, but she needs you. And you… you need to be with your family. At least for this.”

He gave her hand a light squeeze, not just an acknowledgment that she was right, but also a quiet thanks for the comfort and the loyalty she had shown him. That would always mean something. Always.

Then, as though the tension in his shoulders and the raging waters of his mind were never there…he made his way to stand next to his sister and the rest of the Damien family. Just in time for Violet’s words to escalate.

“...I am Lady Violet Damien, and if anyone here has forgotten what that name means…” She leaned forward, just slightly, her voice lowering “…I invite you to continue.”

For that moment…For that night…For better or for worse, the Damiens stood as a united front.

It wasn’t long after Violet finished her words that Callum stepped in to try his hand somewhere it didn’t belong.

“Count Damien, amusing you should speak of houses burning while yours sits aflame. Who else here can say they’ve failed to secure their estate from common criminals? Ransacked one day. Pickpockets at your masquerade the next. Oh, and did I not just see your bastard assault one of my father’s esteemed guests?

A cold smirk crossed the lips of that very bastard as he listened to the rest.

It was unfortunate, really. Cas had seen so much potential in the Prince, unlike in his pretentious dick of a brother. Guess even the rotten apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Cassius relished the moment to speak.

“What humors me, little prince, is this…” he said, his voice low, stripped of warmth, each word weighed like it had been forged in fire. “I’m a bastard. Unwelcome here by many. A stain on the family line. A walking reminder of everything most fathers would try to bury. And a real pain in the ass at that.”

He took a step closer.

“And even still…” He didn’t blink, didn’t breathe…Just stared. “My father loves me more than our King has ever even pretended to love you.”

One heartbeat of silence followed, but no one dared break it until he continued.

“That’s the difference between you and me, Callum. I was born a problem, and still, here I stand…as his chosen son. And you? You’re just acting like a mouthpiece for a crown that’s too ashamed to be anywhere near your head.”

His smile grew as his words flowed like the richest of whiskeys.

“And speaking of shame,”

Cas’s gaze burned even brighter as it met Roman’s eyes.

“You hit my sister.”

The words landed heavier than any before them.

“Let me be clear, Ravenwood. Just in case my father’s words aren’t enough. You don’t touch Violet Damien in passion. You don’t touch her in rage. You don’t touch her when drunk, when sober, when dreaming, or when dying.”

Cassius let his hand reach up to gently squeeze the arm of his sister. Even if she didn't like him, she wasn't alone. Not anymore.

“In fact, you big son of a bitch…You never touch her again.”

His words might as well have been daggers aimed at the man beast’s heart.

“Because if you do…I swear to the cunts above you call gods, and to the very king sitting right here in front of us both, that you won’t even make it to your little trial.”

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

Ezekiel @Helo, Scratch / Vallena @Apex Sunburn, Callandra @princess

---

The pipe hits the floor with a ringing clatter. For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then…

The screech erupts, feral and bloodthirsty, bouncing off the walls like a beast in flight. The griffon freezes, head whipping toward the sound with predatory precision.

A heartbeat later, the slime hits. Brilliant purples and flickering teals burst across crimson hoods and lacquered armor, lighting the assassins like cursed stars.

The griffon screams.

It launches with terrifying speed, wings blasting debris aside, talons reaching. It doesn't hesitate. It doesn't care who you are. It saw prey. Now it sees rivals.

Two Swords flickers into view atop a crate, just as Scratch's bullet finds her.

The round hits hard. It punches into her shoulder with a flash of arcane light and a crack of force that sends her spinning mid-teleport. She reappears mid-air, faltering ...crashing through a hanging tarp and slamming into a stack of barrels that caves inward under the impact. Crates explode around her in a wooden burst. She doesn’t rise. At least not right away.

Furnace, caught in the middle of a glowing glyph, falters. The griffon’s cry throws his balance, and the final rune collapses into ash beneath his fingertips. The floor around him seethes with unspent heat, curling with smoke. His hands shake, magic sputtering.

Sparkler does not flinch. He raises his sickle, the blade glowing red-hot now. As the griffon bears down, he meets it. Metal clashes with beak and talon, a sound like steel tearing through thunder. He slides back from the impact but stays upright, his body bracing, his empty eye sockets glaring through the haze.

In that one instant, all three assassins are off balance. And more important perhaps, for the briefest moment, they are no longer focused on you. Chaos reigns.

You have time. Seconds, maybe, but its enough to make a difference.

What do you do?