Oso

✨Beyond The Veil✨

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Location: Penthouse Suite 1411 • Time: Dusk

Interactions: A Crow Named Mercy • Mentions: Noah @helo

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Halcyon looked beautiful tonight.
But then, that was the trouble with the city. It always looked beautiful.

It sprawled beneath the glass in a flood of jewel tones and drops of rain trailing down the window, a city soaked in color ... neon bleeding across the skyline in bruised violets and electric golds, pink signs flickering in time with the thunder of bass lines that pulsed from rooftop bars and underground dens. It glowed like temptation and smelled like regret. It was a cathedral of sin with a dress code and a sommelier with one hell of a wine list.

And from here, it looked like it was still holding together.

Locke stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of the penthouse, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other curled around a glass. His reflection barely flickered in the pane. Just a shadow in a tailored silver vest, rings catching the light, eyes the color of warm embers before they went cold. Auburn, but sharp. Like the last thing you saw before the sun dipped below the horizon and the dark of night took its rightful place.

Mercy cawed softly from her perch beneath a modern light fixture sculpted like a twisted helix. Reflections from its warm bulbs made her feathers gleam like oil. She didn’t look at him, just the window…just the city.

Locke sipped his Irish coffee slowly, savoring it like a ritual. Sweetened cream, rich roast, just enough whiskey to kiss the edge of his throat on the way down. It tasted like memories. Like his father’s quiet hum in the kitchen and a sharp smack on the hand if he reached for the bottle too early.

“Pretty from a distance, isn’t it?” he murmured to the crow, his voice low and smooth with that soft Irish tilt that made everything he said sound more like a song or a secret. “You can feel her hummin’ under your skin, can’t you? Like she knows you’re watchin’.”

Mercy didn’t reply, of course she didn’t. She just blinked once, but somehow Locke knew the gist of her feelings on the matter.

“I swear, this place feels like it’s one bad day from burnin’ to the ground,” he added after a moment. “But it never does. It lingers, like blood under your fingernails.”

Another sip. Slower, this time. He let it warm him from the inside out. The silence stretched long and sweet. The kind of silence that people mistake for peace ... but that Locke had long since learned was the sound of something waiting.

He turned from the window to reveal something far less beautiful than the neon jungle below. The apartment behind him was a slaughterhouse.

Blood painted the walls in looping, arterial arcs. A smear trailed down the marble kitchen island like someone had tried ... and failed ... to crawl away. There was a tooth near the fridge. A whole fucking tooth. One of the bar stools was cracked clean in half, splinters stabbed into the floor like miniature stakes.

Locke exhaled softly through his nose. Set the glass down on the only clean counter with a careful touch. He rolled his shoulders once, and pulled his black leather gloves on one hand at a time… flexing the fingers within as he did so, stretching the leather to get them just right.

“All right, my girl,” he said to Mercy with gentle enthusiasm. “Let’s tidy up.”

The glamour came easily. It always did.

It started at his feet ... thin silver lines that etched across the floor like veins, delicate and precise, spreading outward with a hum that only he and the dead could hear. Reality began to bend, not violently, but with quiet inevitability, like a sheet folding under its own weight.

He stepped over the blood trail, the stain vanished behind him like it had been pulled into the tile by invisible threads. Bone splinters turned to soot and were drawn into a small sigil etched midair, hovering in front of his palm.

Locke lifted a small glass vial from his vest pocket ... dark, crystal-cut, capped in silver. He unstoppered it, held it toward the open air, and whispered something under his breath. The glamour obeyed.

The smell of blood and death that was filling the room... in all of its coppery rotten glory ... peeled away from the air and funneled into the vial like smoke into a chimney. He sealed it with a flick of his wrist.

“That one’s for the river,” he said absently, tucking it away.

He moved like water, like silk. Hands steady, motions deliberate. Where he passed, destruction vanished. Walls smoothed. Cracks in the drywall mended. A throw pillow ... previously soaked in sanguine... fluffed itself clean and dry. A shattered coffee table reassembled with the faintest click of wooden joints syncing back into place. Even the emotional imprint of the violence ... that lingering pressure that made your stomach twist when you entered a room that knew what had happened ... was drawn into a ward and locked away.

Locke Devlin didn’t just clean up a crime scene.
He made it so it had never happened.

By the time he was done, the apartment looked like the cover of a design magazine. Polished chrome, sleek lines, a small candle burning in the corner with the scent of bergamot and sandalwood ... his signature, though most never noticed it until long after he was gone.

Mercy fluttered down and landed on his shoulder with a rustle of wings. She let out a small, satisfied noise ... a mimic of a sigh he hadn’t realized she’d heard from him before.

Locke smiled without showing teeth. “All right, love. Job’s done.”

He retrieved his drink, swirling the last inch of whiskey and cream. He sipped and pondered the scene before stepping back to the window to take one more look from on high.

There were worse things to be than lucky.
But in Halcyon, luck could be more terrifying than magic.
And Locke Devlin had both.

He straightened his vest, smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt, and vanished out the front door, leaving no prints, no traces, no ghosts behind.

Only the faint smell of clove.
And the quiet certainty that someone, somewhere had just gotten away with murder.

But before he could even put the building behind him, he felt the buzz of a notification coming from his pocket. Something in him stirred and his heart sunk deep into the pit of his stomach, though he didn’t understand where or why the sense of dread came from. Then he checked the phone.

It was text.

We need to talk. Tonight. Pink Room.

It wasn't the words that justified the dread. It was who sent the message.

Noah Corvane. An old friend, but also something so...so much worse.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Dominic Blackmoor

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Abandoned Warehouse • Time: Dusk

Interactions: N/A • Mentions: @Infinite Cosmos Lucian, @deegee Kessler,@Potter Tessa

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The warehouse was cold, tonight. Not from the rain seeping through its rusted seams, or the wind that slipped beneath the door and sighed across the concrete, but from the silence. That made it a kind of cold that went deeper than bones. But it was dark too. In the entire vast warehouse, a single light burned above one…specific spot.
Old, yellowed, swaying faintly from a pipe overhead, that light cast shadows that moved more than they should. Beneath it sat a chair, and in that chair sat a man.

Or what was left of him.

He had been bound, wrists and ankles lashed tight with chains, head slumped forward as if in sleep. But there was no rest in the way he sagged, no peace in the mess that had been made of him. His chest was flayed open in strips, raw and blackened in places where something hot had kissed the skin again and again. Fingers missing. Teeth scattered across the floor like forgotten pennies on the ground. His face... torn, partially peeled, brutalized until it barely resembled the man it once belonged to.

But the cut was still there. That aged and worn leather vest that had seen years of wear, tear, and pride. It was tattered, soaked through with blood, but unmistakable.
The Iron Fangs patch front and center, loud and proud, just like Logan always wore it.

Dominic Blackmoor sat across from him, silent, unmoving, his broad shoulders hunched forward on a crate dragged in from the dark. One boot flat against the ground, one arm resting on his knee, the other curled loosely in his lap. His head was tilted just slightly, eyes fixed on the body, storm-gold and quiet, the light above painting slow shadows across his beard.

He had been there for a while, and he hadn’t spoken when they first brought him to the body. He just motioned for the others to leave, and out of respect for him…out of respect for Logan, they did so without question. Still, he hadn’t spoken. Not yet.

It should have taken time to recognize him with the way he was mangled and covered in his own viscera. But Dominic hadn’t needed much. He’d known before they told him…before the body was even cold. Somehow he could just feel it. The ring still clinging to what was left of his hand was just the verification. The proof of what he already knew, what he was so fucking afraid would be true.

Logan Delaney. His second. Dominic’s “Red Right Hand”, as he always called himself.
His brother in every way that mattered.

Dominic reached into the inside of his coat and pulled out an old cloth. It was faded and worn smooth at the edges. He unfolded it slowly, then leaned forward with a patience that didn’t match the ache burning behind his ribs.

There was a smear of blood just below Logan’s eye. Dried, dark, and thick.
Dominic touched it with the cloth, wiped it gently, then again…moving in careful circles.

“You were strong,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely more than a breath. Not even really a whisper.
“I know you fought. I bet you made them pay for every second.”

He wiped a bit more from Logan’s cheek, though the damage there was too deep for cleaning to matter. Still, he tried.

“I should’ve been here,” he said softly, the words sinking like stones in his soul.
“I should’ve known.”

There was no vampire stench in the air. No sour, floral rot. No magic clinging to the walls like old perfume. Whoever had done this wasn’t one of them. Dominic could’ve smelled it from the door. This wasn’t a kill for hunger. This was cruelty, pointed and personal. This was someone sending a message.

It was the third time this year a wolf had been found like this.
The third stolen from them, the third one desecrated, buried without answers. But this one... this one carved deeper. Logan had been a part of every plan, every war, every dream. He had kept the Irons steady when Dominic faltered, had seen to the youngbloods, had laughed loud and thrown fists when needed, always the last to leave and the first to bleed. There was no one more loyal.

Dominic swallowed hard. He hadn’t cried since the night he ended his father’s reign of terror and assumed his place as Alpha. But now, in the stillness, his eyes burned and blurred, and a single tear slipped down the side of his face.

It fell onto the cloth, but there was no acknowledgment of it…he didn’t even stop wiping.

“You hated when they called you soft,” he said after a while.
“But you were, old man. You cared more than you let on…always did.”

The words caught in his throat, twisted there, stuck between sorrow and rage. His hand trembled, just slightly, as he wiped another smear of blood from Logan’s brow, then brushed his hair back behind one ear.

“I see you, brother,” he whispered.

He sat there for a long time after that, just breathing. Just... being.

Then he reached down, took Logan’s hand in both of his, and slowly slid the ring from his finger. The weight of it in his palm felt like a final word. He stared at it for a moment, then turned it over and slipped it onto his own hand, where it settled against the thick bone too tight but exactly where it belonged now.

“Your hunt is over,” Dominic said, his voice raw now, gravel and thunder held back by force of will.
“Time to rest.”

He stood.

Carefully, with reverence, he reached down and unbuckled Logan’s vest, peeled it from his ruined frame, and folded it with both hands, pressing it flat against his chest as if the weight of it might keep him grounded.

He turned toward the door.

The metal groaned softly as it opened, and the scent of rain spilled in from outside. A shadow crossed the threshold. A woman stepped in, her hair was pulled back tight, face drawn and red-rimmed, jaw clenched to keep from breaking again. She wore her cut over a dark hoodie, and her eyes were burning red from the tears.

She met Dominic’s eyes, and something in her face cracked.

He said nothing, just stepped forward and rested one large hand on her shoulder. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t pull her in. Just let the weight of his touch settle there like a promise. She was a youngblood, new to the pack.

“I’m proud of you,” he said quietly.
“I hope you know that.”

She nodded once, her eyes brimming again.

“But we can’t mourn. Not yet. It’s not time. We’ve got work to do.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. So he spoke again… This time, she would have to speak.

“How many people know?” he asked her

“Just you,” she said. “me...and the newbloods who found him.”

“Keep it that way. At least for tonight. I want to be able to tell Tessa myself.”

He paused, glancing back at the body one last time, his jaw tightening.

“Get Kessler and Lucian here. I need them. He would’ve wanted them here.”

She hesitated, then turned to go.

“And,” Dominic added, voice barely audible,
“have them bring a bottle of Walker… Red Label.”

There was silence, but her nod stood as promise.

“It was Logan’s favorite. He deserves one last drink.”

The woman left, and Dominic Blackmoor stood alone again, a bloody and folded vest in his hands, a storm at his back, and a quiet rage in his chest that burned hotter than hell itself.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

@Helo You have my vote of approval! Love a good chaotic king lol

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Mentions/Interactions: Phia @princess, Meiyu @Tae, Talis @Oso

---

The moment Phia’s claw lashed out, the sharp edge of her soul surged forward like a wild thing unleashed. Her foot missed its mark, slipping through blood and shadow as Liana turned just slightly, avoiding the sweep with predatory grace. But Phia’s follow-up did not miss.

Her claws raked across the side of Liana’s face, cutting deep enough to draw blood, three angry crimson lines scoring down from brow to cheekbone in perfect, furious symmetry. Liana’s head turned with the motion, hair swinging as the blow staggered her. Her lips curled slightly. Not in pain…in fury.

It was all Meiyu needed.

From below, the shadow danced upward with precision, and the dagger slipped into Liana’s thigh with all the grace of a secret. The blade found flesh. The venom began to spread. It would not paralyze her entirely, but it would weaken her. It would slow her. That was enough.

Liana knew it the moment it hit. Her balance shifted. Her body felt heavier. Her heartbeat stuttered once, then began to thrum harder, compensating.

It only took a second or two for it to begin spreading. She was running out of time.

Enough! There was no more cleverness, no more indulgence.

By the time Liana turned to face her, Phia barely had a millisecond to blink.

The kick slammed into her abdomen like a battering ram, cracking ribs on impact and launching her back across the tile. She hit the mirror with a sound like a thunderclap, glass and breath shattering in the same instant.

Before she could even fall, Liana was on her.

Her hand found Phia’s face and slammed it backward once…twice…three times into the shattered wood frame behind her. Blood dripped from her scalp, her lip, her brow.

“You deserve this.” she whispered coldly, her breath brushing Phia’s ear as she let her drop like a broken doll onto the tile.

Then, with no warning and no sound but the snap of air filling the space she vacated, Liana vanished.

Black smoke coiled in the stall. Talis looked up.

She was still crouched, still clutching her satchel like a child holding tight to a dream, her knuckles white with fear. Her breath hitched, shallow and fast. Her whole body trembled. The chaos outside had sounded like the end of the world, and now the end had come to collect her.

The air thickened, and then Liana was there.

She stood in the tight space like she belonged in it, as if the stall had simply grown around her presence. Her hair hung in front of her eyes, blood still dripping down her cheek in long, lazy rivulets. Her breath was measured, and a sick smile painted her face.

Talis whimpered without meaning to.

“All that running,” Liana said softly, crouching to her level. “All that trembling, and you still think you're the hero of this story?”

Talis’s mouth opened, but no words came. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream, couldn’t do anything but stare at a woman who may as well have been the reaper herself.

“You have something I need,” she said, almost gently. “Just close your eyes. You don’t have to run anymore.”

Then the blades struck.

One after the other, plunged deep into Talis’s abdomen, sliding past soft flesh and into the core of her body. Her eyes went wide. Her breath caught. She clutched tighter to the satchel as if it could still save her. Her mouth formed the beginning of a plea that never came.

Black ichor began to pulse into her bloodstream, branching out like ink spilled through water, spreading beneath the surface of her skin as the daggers pulled free.

She was still holding the satchel, alive but fading fast.

Liana reached forward and took the bag from her without ceremony.

“Good girl. Die for me.”

And in the next flicker of broken light, she was gone.

Talis slumped sideways, barely conscious, blood soaking her legs and pooling beneath her. Her breath was short and shallow. The veins beneath her skin turned blacker by the second.

The Devil had vanished, and all that remained in the stall was a dying girl who had tried so hard to do the right thing.

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 🎕

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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

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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 🤪🤪🤪