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Oso male Member

STATUS: It low key still amazes me sometimes that I met my fiancé on this site lol. Dreams do come true xD. 2 mos ago
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2 mos ago
Current It low key still amazes me sometimes that I met my fiancé on this site lol. Dreams do come true xD.
9 likes
4 mos ago
The love she gives is unlike anything my heart ever believed this world could offer. The love she is owed is my purpose, and it is my honor to fulfill such an oath. My heart is yours forever.
3 likes
8 mos ago
It's time
11 mos ago
I'm halfway between "I'm overwhelmed with the 3 RP's I'm doing" and "Everyday I browse the site for more, because I HUNGER!!!!!"
10 likes
1 yr ago
"Rebellions are built on hope"
4 likes

Bio

Help, it's again!

Most Recent Posts

In ✨Beyond The Veil✨ → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


I also Approve!!!!
In Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Mentions/Interactions: Phia @princess, Meiyu @Tae




The pain had become a second heartbeat.

Talis could barely feel her legs anymore. Her abdomen throbbed in deep, wet pulses that grew quieter with every passing breath. She was cold now. Not the trembling kind of cold, but the still kind. The kind that made her wonder if the blood soaking her thighs was all she had left.

But there were arms around her.

She blinked slowly, lashes heavy with tears, and turned her head slightly against the warmth of Phia’s chest. The scent of her…flowers and sweat and a hint of ash…was the first real thing she had felt since the blades had pierced her. And for a long moment, she just let herself breathe.

“Hey…” she whispered, voice thin and dry, cracking at the edges. Her hand fumbled weakly at Phia’s side, searching for something to hold. “You’re still here.”

Her lips trembled as she smiled, even as fresh blood pooled at the corner of her mouth. “Thank you… I didn’t think anyone would be.”

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye and rolled into her hair.

She coughed once, a sick, wet sound, and her body seized with the motion. Her face twisted in pain as the black veins crept higher, spreading throughout her like cancer, whispering toward her neck like ink spilled across paper too fragile to hold it. Her stomach convulsed again, and a whimper escaped before she could stop it.

“I was so afraid she was going to kill you both…” Her head turned slowly, eyes searching the elven girl’s face. “I’m so sorry…I never wanted to be such a burden to anyone.”

Her fingers curled against Phia’s arm, trying so hard to hold on.

Then Meiyu spoke.

The words filtered through her fading senses, sharp and elegant, that voice like velvet over glass. Talis’s eyes fluttered toward her, half-lidded and heavy with pain.

And as she heard the woman’s question, Talis... laughed.

A tiny sound, frail and breathless, but there was pride in it. There was something mischievous still clinging to her fading smile.

Her hand slid, weak but deliberate, into the folds of her robe.

She didn’t explain, instead she just opened her palm.

And there, nestled between shaking fingers, was a crystal.

Strange but elegant, imperfect. Not flashy, not gilded, not inlaid with gems. Just… unique. And old. A heartbeat of faint light pulsed at its core.

She looked up at Meiyu with a flicker of spark in her tired eyes.

“She took the bag.” Talis said in a sharp intake of breath as her voice caught. “But not the prize.” Her smile deepened for a moment, even as pain cracked the edges of it. “I hid it…that…made me feel brave.”

She swallowed, trembling, and turned her gaze to Phia again.

“I was in over my head, but…” she murmured, the words catching between shallow, rattled breaths. “I had to take it. I had no choice. It was too important… too dangerous…” Her chest shuddered as pain arced through her, the black veins spreading rapidly and relentlessly. “But I can’t hold it anymore… not like this…” She looked toward the artifact, her gaze soft despite the agony behind it. “Maybe now… it’s time it chose for itself.”
Her fingers opened.

The artifact rose.

It drifted from her palm like a feather caught in windless air, rising slowly, spinning faintly, that same heartbeat of light growing stronger. A soft hum filled the space around them. Not loud, not threatening, but something about the resonance of it felt ancient.

Talis looked up at it with wide, watery eyes, her face illuminated by its glow.

And then…so softly it barely existed, she whispered,

“I’ve been alone my whole life.”

Her throat tightened and her eyes welled. “Even when I wasn’t. Even with my family. Even at the academy…I was always invisible.” Her voice shook. Her body trembled. “I didn’t know how heavy it had been. Until now.”

She turned her head again, looking at Phia as more tears spilled over her cheeks.

“I’m scared.” Her emotions cracked her open as she confessed. “It hurts, and I’m scared, and I don’t want to die.”

A sob broke from her lips.

Then, through the agony, through the bleeding and the failing breath and the fire in her chest, she smiled.

“But… I’m not alone anymore.”

Her hand lifted, trembling like a leaf in storm winds, and she cupped Phia’s cheek. Her thumb barely brushed the skin there, too weak to linger.

“At least I don’t have to die the way I lived.”

She exhaled one final breath, shallow and warm, as her eyes searched Phia’s face.

“Thank you…”

And then, there was nothing.

The light left her eyes…her hand fell. The rising of her chest ceased, her body became limp.... She was gone.

But yet the artifact hovered above them still, pulsing now with deeper light. No longer soft, no longer waiting.

It had been hidden, dormant and suppressed, but now it had been seen.

And now, it was time for it to choose.


In Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

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


The moment Retribution strikes, the hold erupts.

The blade crashes against Sparkler’s sickle with a burst of divine light, steel shattering the gloom. The force of Ezekiel’s swing drives through with impossible strength, splitting the air with a sound like a church bell struck at the hour of judgment. The sickle is wrenched sideways, sparks trailing behind as the red-hooded warrior staggers back, blood splashing hot across the deck. The paladin presses forward.

This is no dance…This is execution.

Sparkler’s massive form crumples to the ground with a sickening thud, his sickle transforming into a collection of shifting and slithering snakes and worms as the light leaves his soul. The wretched critters scatter about the hold in panic.

The warrior has been dealt with.

The turret whirs, rail lines glowing with spirals of arcane energy. Shards of jagged steel and broken gear fire through the air, a storm of metal closing in on the last assassin standing.

Furnace is forced to move.

A blast of debris rakes across his shoulder, flaring his cloak like a fire-struck banner. Another shot clips his leg, staggered but not stopping him. He turns sharply, eyes hidden behind a hood soaked in shadow and heat, and lifts his hands once more.

The runes carved into his forearms blaze to life. Not the elegant glow of typical spellwork, but a searing, erratic flare...lines etched deep and meant for war. The smoke that clings to his shoulders now coils tighter, wrapping around him like armor. Sparks dance across his palms.

He crouches low behind a collapsed cage, hand pressed to the scorched metal. With precise gestures, he begins to cast...not at the paladin, not at the elf, but at the turret. A ripple of pressure begins to build in the air, pulling heat from the steel, drawing sigils across the deck in glowing ember tones.

It’s not fire. It’s disruption.

A localized pulse...crafted to short circuits, unravel glyphs, and overload magic-bound tech. A countermeasure born of battlefield sorcery.

But it will take time, as the most dangerous magics do.

One enemy left. Your move, friends.


In ✨Beyond The Veil✨ → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
@Ctenoid Soul Approved on my end as well
In ✨Beyond The Veil✨ → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay



Dominic Blackmoor

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Location: Abandoned Warehouse • Time: Dusk

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

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


The rain had eased to a low whisper, barely more than a breath against the rusted metal of the warehouse walls. Somewhere behind the clouds, the moon hid its face, and the world felt quieter for it. Not peaceful… just quiet like how storms get when the eye rolls overhead and the wind forgets to howl.

Dominic was already standing outside.

Backlit by the dull glow of a security lamp, he was all silhouette and silent rage, the edges of his kutte damp with rain, one hand loose by his side, the other curling slow and steady into a fist. He didn’t pace, he didn’t smoke even though god damn he wanted to. He just waited. It wasn’t time to ease his pain, to soothe. He needed to feel it. Every last ounce of it.

The first sound was the low rumble of Lucian’s bike… followed closely by the heavier grind of Kessler’s boots on gravel. They came into the light one after the other, but Dominic didn’t move to greet them. He just looked at them, storm-gold eyes steady, as if measuring the moment, as if deciding whether or not it was even fair to ask them to see what he was about to lead them to.

Lucian held out the bottle.

Dominic took it without a word, unscrewed the cap, and brought it to his lips. He didn’t toast, didn’t tip his head. Just drank. A slow, heavy pull that caught in the throat and burned like it should. When he lowered the bottle, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then nodded once.

“Come inside,” he said quietly. “There’s something you need to see.”

The door creaked as he opened it, the warehouse swallowing them all in dim light and the stench of old rain, metal, and blood. Their boots echoed faintly on the concrete, but nothing could drown the silence waiting just ahead.

Dominic said nothing as he led them in.

No words could ready them for what they’d find beneath that swaying bulb… where Logan Delaney, Red Right Hand of the Iron Fangs, sat butchered and broken, bound and left like some grotesque message from something that didn’t know the meaning of mercy.

Dominic didn’t look at them as they entered the room. He didn’t turn to watch the shock hit, didn’t try to soften the blow. He just walked to the chair again, slow, as if pulled by a gravity no one else could feel, and stopped just to the side.

He took another long drink from the bottle.

And then, after letting that moment sink in. Really fucking sink in…finally, he spoke.

“They didn’t just kill him.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was calm, the kind of calm that made the room feel colder. “They made an example of him.”

He looked at Logan’s body, at what was left of the man who once laughed the loudest in every room and bled beside them in every fight worth a damn.

“Someone wanted us to feel this. Wanted it to haunt us. To make us hesitate. To wonder which one of us is going to be next.” He turned slightly now, facing his brothers, the bottle still in his hand.

Dom stepped forward, crouched slightly, and poured a slow stream of liquor onto the concrete beside Logan’s boots. It splashed across the blood already staining the floor, soaking into it as if the dead still drank.

“For the last drink,” he said softly.

Then he stood, holding the bottle out in his palm, his eyes lifting to Lucian… then Kessler.

No command, no words…Just an offering. It was a rite, a moment to honor what mattered most. Brotherhood. And the promise that no wolf would ever die forgotten.

“The three of us share one last drink with our brother…then we bury him. We lay him to rest and we get to work. I want you to find who did this and I want you to bring them to me so I can show this entire fucking city what happens to anyone who takes my brothers and sisters away from me.”

In 🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕 → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

Time: Evening
Location: Banquet Hall
Mentions / Interactions: @FunnyGuy Alexander, Lorenzo @princess Charlotte, @JJ Doe Count Fritz





Cassius stood there for a long moment, staring at the space where Charlotte had just been.

The scent of her perfume still lingered on his coat, faint and floral, and it clawed at something buried too deep for him to name. The way she had gripped him... the way her voice had broken when she said she would be back... it hadn’t felt like someone chasing gossip or justice. It felt more like someone chasing ghosts.

And all around him, the feast carried on. Silverware clinked against porcelain, laughter resumed at half-volume, and the royals whispered behind half-hidden fans and wine glasses, but Cassius didn’t care. Not anymore…not tonight.

Because something was wrong with Charlotte.

The signs were no longer subtle. The trembling, the pale skin, the glazed eyes... whatever haunted her wasn’t imagined. And he had ignored the first signs…chalked it up to emotion, or alcohol, or just the sheer mess of the evening…but no, this was different. This was danger.

And now she was gone, alone, chasing after her stepfather and that bastard vampire like it was some secret she had to uncover. His jaw clenched as he thought about it. About what Lorenzo had said... or implied. About Alexander and Charlotte. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t line up with what he knew of her... what he felt about her. But now wasn’t the time to question it. He filed the confusion away, cold and tight, like a blade tucked against the small of his back. Something to draw later.

He turned without another word and followed.

The hallway stretched before him, empty and dim, lit only by lamplight. He moved silently, steps fluid and precise, the sound of his boots swallowed by velvet carpet and instinct. It didn’t take long to find her.

She was pressed against the wall, just outside a shut door. Fritz was beside her, crouched low, listening through a tumbler of glass. The sight should’ve been ridiculous, but there was nothing funny about the way Charlotte’s arms wrapped around herself, like she was the only thing holding her body together.

He approached slowly, not wanting to startle her... and yet, the moment he reached her, she flinched anyway.

His hand found her shoulder, warm and steady.

"Lottie..." His voice was quiet, gentler than anyone had heard from him that night. "You shouldn’t be here. Not like this."

He didn’t offer enough time for a response.

"I know you think whatever’s happening behind that door matters, and maybe it does... But right now, it doesn’t matter more than you." His eyes flicked briefly toward Fritz full of concern, then back to her. "You look like you're about to fall over... your skin’s cold, your hands are shaking. Whatever’s happening to you... it’s not going to wait until you get the answers you want."

He took both of her hands in his again, holding them between his palms.

"Come with me. Please. Just for a little while... let me make sure you’re alright."
In ✨Beyond The Veil✨ → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

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.
In ✨Beyond The Veil✨ → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay

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.
In ✨Beyond The Veil✨ → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay
@Helo You have my vote of approval! Love a good chaotic king lol
In Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron → 1 yr ago Forum: Casual Roleplay


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.


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