Oso

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

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

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The shot echoes like thunder, splitting the air with arcane finality.

For a heartbeat, the cargo bay holds its breath.

Then... the smoke clears.

Furnace stands, or what’s left of him does ... a blackened crater burned clean through his chest, the remnants of armor fused to cauterized flesh. For a moment, he sways. The runes once alight with power along his forearms flicker. The magic in his hands, once bright and crackling with disruption, fizzles like fog in the wind.

Then, his knees give way.

He crumples backward into the twisted debris of the hold, a smear of blood seeping beneath him. The heat around his corpse begins to fade, the last sparks curling from his fingertips like dying embers. The smoke does not rise in menace now ... only memory.

Furnace is dead.

And with him, the immediate storm passes.

But the ship groans again.

The Stormrider’s hull trembles under the weight of strain. The tear left behind from Furnace’s last spell still gapes along the wall, bleeding light and wind. Deep within the belly of the vessel, the bound elemental pulses like a wounded animal. The glow of its heart flickers through cracks in the floor ... not with rhythm, but with instability. The very soul of the ship is faltering.

And then, behind you... a sound.

Heavy metal groans. Latches creak. Gears grind like reluctant titans.

The door begins to open.

Through the haze and storm, Val works the mechanisms with frantic precision, while Ezekiel’s steady hands pull the final lever into place. Light spills from the corridor beyond ...

And with that, the rest of the ship awaits.

Flames somewhere above crackle faintly. Below, the ship groans again, a subtle shift that sends debris rolling across the floor. The Stormrider is wounded, bleeding, and slowing.

But it’s not lost…Not yet.

The way forward is open.

What do you do?

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Liana Vestra

The smoke curled across the floor as Liana’s boots struck tile, her body blinking into existence with the sound of air swallowing itself. She landed off-center, weight faltering on her leg, and stumbled a step before catching herself against the nearest wall. Her hand braced flat against the cold wood, breath shallow, every pulse of her thigh a drumbeat of poison spreading.

The pain lit fire through her limbs, but she didn't care. Why would she?

A sharp breath hissed through her teeth as she straightened. Her wound throbbed with each heartbeat, but there was something stronger crawling through her than pain. Her eyes flicked to the satchel clenched in her other hand, the blood-slick leather warm beneath her fingers. She had fucking won.

She laughed... She couldn’t help herself. After everything. After failures and fragments and all of the blood and the corpses that had been left in her wake… she had it.

She set the bag down on the table, movements careful, measured, reverent. She stared at it like a holy thing, letting the moment linger. Her fingers unfastened the strap with aching slowness, savoring every breath.

Inside was her destiny.

She opened it with more anticipation than she had ever felt…And suddenly, she stopped breathing.

There, nestled in the center of the bag, sitting like the punchline to some cruel joke, was a single metal can. She stared. The color drained from her face as she reached inside with steady fingers, as if somehow the act of touching it would change its reality.

She lifted it, turned it over so her eyes could see the truth.

Beans.

It was a can of wretched, useless, cruel, disastrous, devastating, evil…fucking… BEANS.

Her eye twitched. She didn’t move for a long time. The only sound was her breathing, short and tight through her nose. Then came the softest exhale, the faintest narrowing of her gaze, the slow coiling of every muscle in her body.

Her grip tightened around the can until her knuckles cracked.

She said nothing.

Then suddenly, the bag exploded across the room, hurled with a snarl that split the silence like a blade. The can clattered from her palm and bounced off the metal floor with a clunk that echoed too long, too loud. It spun once, rolled, and settled. It didn’t even bust open.

Her jaw clenched.

The veins in her leg pulsed again, harder this time, like a tide turning inside her. Her hand trembled as it went to her ribs, pressing against the place that serpent bitch had struck, where the poison still flowed.

Her body was failing her, and fast.

She wanted nothing more than to go back in that room and peel them apart with her bare hands, but it was too late, and despite all the rage she knew there was only one way to make it out alive.

She reached into her cloak with shaking fingers and pulled free a smooth black stone etched with arcane runes. She held it close, her voice low and precise as she whispered into it.

“I am initiating a full and immediate retreat.”

There was a pause, the air around her hung thick with rage.

“I repeat...We are to withdraw immediately. Rendezvous at designation nine.”

She lowered the stone. Her hand hovered there for a moment, shaking. Then she turned her eyes to the doorway.

Everything in her screamed to stay, but the toxin whispered a different truth.

She touched the small sigil burned beneath her collarbone, tracing it with two fingers. The rune flared faintly and her breath steadied. Her expression hardened as she took one last look at the bag. One last look at the scattered remains of her victory.

If vengeance had a face, it was hers in that moment.

And then, without another word, she vanished into smoke.

The Devil had been deceived.

!!!!SPOILERS!!!!

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Dmed tparty but I was asked to post her again in the OOC here for review!

Alicia Tenebris

_{Artwork by @Tiny_gh00st}
At 11:22PM, during a live show by The Petty Desperate, a fire broke out in the venue. The press released a statement blaming faulty pyrotechnics, but witness reports mention the sound of gunfire and screaming moments before the fire was contained.

Basic Information

Name: Alicia Tenebris
Nickname(s): Allie, "White Wolf"
Age: 23
Gender: Female
Birthday: December 7
Race: Lycan
Rank/Status Title (if any): Scout, provisional.

Appearance

Height: 5'4"
Build: Slightly stocky
Eye Color: Red
Hair Color & Style: Naturally white, dyed mostly black, pulled into a ponytail with chopped bangs.
Skin Tone: Fair
Notable Marks: Vertical scar across lips. Beauty mark beside her mouth.
Typical Clothing Style: Punky. Leather jackets, tank tops, ripped jeans, combat boots, the works. Always wears a red collar choker. Sometimes seen with an uncharacteristically cute skull hairpin
Aura/First Impression: Bitchy. Always scowling, rolling her eyes, and huffing at every interaction.
Voice: Smooth, velvety, and operatic. Deep baritones, brutal growls, and sultry lows give way to soaring highs, sharp screams, and ethereal, rhythmic notes. She is professionally trained, after all.

Psychology

Hobbies/Interests
✦ Anime & Manga, mostly RomCom & Isekai. She is a TOTAL otaku, and her apartment is covered in figures, posters, and paraphernalia.
✦ Music - should come as no surprise she gravitates to rock & metal. Fucks with electronica, though.
✦ Posting. She's always on imageboards and social media, getting mad at strangers online.
Likes
✦ Cheap beer and chinese food for dinner.
✦ Nightlife. Not the clubbing and fucking nightlife, but the 2AM convenience store run kind.
✦ Dogs. The smaller and stupider looking, the better.
Dislikes
✦ Phone calls. Just fucking text her.
✦ Summer and hot weather. She's got too much hair (and fur) for that shit.
✦ Door knocks and doorbell rings. Something about the sound sets her right the fuck off.
Fears
✦ Strangers. She's paranoid and naturally suspicious of people that approach her. Especially during her nightly beer runs.
✦ Being recognized. She hates her fans. She hates her fans more when they make a huge scene about her.
✦ Stuff in her drink.
Habits
✦ Grinding her teeth. Especially in her sleep.
✦ Tends to hum old tunes absentmindedly when she's busy.
✦ Curses a little bit too much, even in relatively polite company.
Vices
✦ Nightly drinking. She's not quite as severe as a full-on alcoholic, but always averages 2 or 3 beers a night.
✦ Again. Posting. She's up there with the worst of us. Get her off the computer.
✦ Reclusive. She will lock herself in her apartment for days on end if she has nothing to do.

Core Motivation: To be left alone and forgotten, to have what little fame she had fade into less than a memory. At least, that's what she tells herself - but some part of her itches to find out what happened to that bar that burned down the night she made her disappearance.

Personality Overview: Stubborn, snappy, and standoffish are the keywords when one describes Alicia. It’s fairly obvious she’s more than a little depressed. Though once upon a time she was more outgoing and amicable, when she started singing, she closed herself off, much to her bandmates and loved ones' confusion and concern. This has unfortunately only intensified over the years - but she's still at her core a professional, and she's certainly not socially inept and capable of talking to people on her level.

Relationships and Reputation

Openness to Friendship (1-5): 2
Openness to Romance (1-5): 1
Romantic Preferences: Full rejection. She's content with her H-manga and sex toys.
Current Romantic Interests (if any): N/A
View on Forbidden Relationships: Accepting. Coming from the punk scene, queer relationships both mundane and magical are as natural as the moon to her.
Biggest Turn-ons:
✦ You could really just list some hentai website tags here.
Biggest Turn-offs:
✦ Being approached and asked out instead of being allowed to take the initiative herself.
✦ You.
How They Handle Love: She rejects any and all advances vehemently, and seems almost afraid of the prospect.
Reputation Among Their Race/Faction: Amicable. She's on good terms with Blackmoor and his Fangs.
Relationship with the Glamour: Adheres to it. As someone who once had a stage presence, she understands its necessity both for her safety and the safety of the crowd in front of her.
Known Enemies:Her former manager.
Known Friends:Her former band.
Known Family Members: Nobody from Halcyon.

Background

Current Occupation: Shut-in. Pays the rent through odd jobs for the Iron Fangs. Secretly wishes she'd still get residuals on album sales or something.
Level of Schooling(if any): College drop-out.
Past Occupations (if any): Lead vocalist of The Petty Desperate, a mildly recognizable punk band.
Socioeconomic Status: Living paycheck to paycheck in a shitty neighborhood.
History Summary:

Alicia was born in a commune of rogue yet peaceful Lycans west of Halcyon, in a small pack that lived out of trailers near a small shithole town. Alicia, for her part, was a rather curious, outgoing child, and grew up accustomed to the culture of her kind, with an understanding of the Glamour and her own existence. When she left for college, she was already well in control of her abilities and ready enough to face the world. Always having a love of music in part for the CDs her father used to collect, she linked up with a group of other music students - Erica Redwood, Rebecca Connelly, & Charlotte McClellan. They became close-knit friends and decided to quit college as a group and start a band.

Their first gigs as The Petty Desperate were successes, with Alicia as their frontman, and in spite of Alicia's refusal to book some specific dates, their career bloomed into their first EP, "Blackbird", their first studio album, "The Crow, Apathetic", and their first time touring as a supporting artist.

Reviewers found the contrast between their upbeat, energetic instrumentation and their haunting lyrics and songwriting enthralling and attention-grabbing - but noted the two successive releases grew darker and darker. Concurrently, Alicia's bandmates noted a shift in her attitude sometime after the end of a party when she'd disappeared, in a daze, with their manager at the time, Jericho Shea.

Their last show was cut short when, in the middle of their set, a fire broke out in the venue. The bar they'd played in was burned to the ground, and with nearly a dozen casualties in the chaos. To Erica, Rebecca, and Charlotte, it was a shitty accident, but to Alicia, it was a hunt gone wrong.

As she made her way outside, her ears picked up the sound of rifles being primed. Unwilling to endanger her friends or worse, use them as human shields, she made off with a security guard's handgun and fled into the night. Evading capture until the morning, hiding out in the woods, she caught the first bus out of town, not wanting to risk being tracked down with the rest of her band. With their frontman presumed dead in the fire, her remains unable to be found, The Petty Desperate went on an indeterminate hiatus.

Finding herself in Halcyon later that week, Alicia was sniffed out - pun intended - by the Iron Fangs, the presence of a strange and unfamiliar Lycan being treated as an intrusion. However, it just so happened that one or two members of the Fangs had, in fact, heard her performances, and managing to persuade them both to let her stay and to keep their mouths shut about her survival, she was given permission to remain in their territory.

Three years later, Alicia's scratched out a meager-yet-steady living. Taking contract scout work for the Fangs keeps the lights on, but somewhere in the back of her head, she still wonders who, or what, was after her that night...

Race-Specific Questions

▸ Lycans:
✦Born or Turned?: Born. She has very good shapeshifting control, and is able to partially shift. (She's sometimes used this to sprout ears and a tail for self-indulgent bedroom cosplay.)
✦Reaction to Full Moon: Tracks the calendar meticulously to seclude herself properly someplace outside the city.
✦Pack Loyalty Level: Mild.
✦Views on Mortals: Her three best friends in the world were humans. The Wardens, however, are assholes, and she steers clear.
✦Views on Vampires: Stuck-up dickheads. Way cuter in manga.
✦Views on Fae: Freakish. Prejudiced due to warnings from her family growing up. Only uses her White Wolf psuedonym around them.

Miscellaneous

Theme Song: Lake Malice - Blossom
Favorite Food: Sweet chili beef chow mein.
Favorite Animal(s): Shih tzus.
Favorite Music Genre: Progressive rock.
Favorite Haunt: Golden Wok
Signature Weapon: During scout work, carries the same 1911 she'd pilfered from that guard years ago. Serial number filed off by the Fangs as a courtesy.
Preferred Vices: Alcohol
Pet Peeve: Having to leave home without at least a couple hours' notice.
Guilty Pleasure: Orders cheap cosplays online and models in her room. Always deletes the pictures afterward.

@Amatiramisu

She's relatable lol, AND also approved :)

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Aiko 0.2.1 Open Beta

INSERT-HEADER-IMAGE-LINK

INSERT-CHARACTER-IMAGE-LINK __________________________________________________________ Basic Information __________________________________________________________ • Name | Aiko • Nickname(s) | The Vintner, The Dream Alchemist, Zone Defense, Oblivion • Age | Old Enough • Gender | Fluid • Birthday | When the moon first kissed the dream of a flower • Race | Fae • Rank/Status | The Vintner of the House of Dreamwalking Appearance __________________________________________________________ [+] • Height | Around 5'6" • Build | Slender yet.. Nebulous. Their body changes with their presentation, yet their general mass stays consistent. • Eye Color | Gold • Hair Color & Style | Black and variable, their hair changes freely in length, though it still needs styling when they do this. For this reason, they don't often get it done, letting it fall how it may while giving it basic maintenance. • Skin Tone | Fair and smooth without marks • Notable Marks | Fair, unblemished skin • Typical Clothing Style | Loose-fitting, flowing garbs that will fit no matter what shape they take • Aura/First Impression | Sweet, friendly, approachable and passionate about their craft, perhaps obsessed. If you're a customer. If you are not a customer, Aiko is playful and mischievous, but not dangerous. Really, they just want to trick one into becoming a customer. If you harass their customers.. don't let them catch you. • Voice | Varies with their shape and whimsy Relationships __________________________________________________________ [+] • Openness to Friendship (1-5) | 5 • Openness to Romance (1-5) | 4 • Romantic Preferences | Pansexual • Current Romantic Interests | There’s been some dreams I like to frequent, lately, but nothing I’d call a romantic interest. • View on Forbidden Relationships | It’s all in how you handle it. You have to be at peace with the reality of things. Mortals will die, for example. Can't go crying too hard for something you knew would happen. • Biggest Turn-ons | Wild, adventurous dreams; dreams of themselves; purposeful, eloquent speech • Biggest Turn-offs | Alcoholics guzzling my wine like it’s some cheap swill; flinching at their shifting; • Known Friends | Insert • Known Enemies | Insert • Known Family | Insert

Psychology ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Hobbies/Interests | Cooking, Reading, Walking the Dreamscape, Hunting rare samples • Likes | Novelty, Healthy Dreams, A good time, reading by candlelight, fashion shows, tasteful nudity • Dislikes | Dreary days, boring places, angry dreams, harsh metal music • Fears | Insomnia, Tortured Dreamscape • Habits | Humms while working, dreamwalks all the time, shifts at any time, snuggly • Vices | Shrooms, pot, a bit of booze Core Motivation Dreams are so vastly varied, each with different properties. How to best enjoy them and ply them, then? And what of those rare dreams, ah? Personality Overview Aiko is approachable and, seemingly, trustworthy, for a Fae. They like to make simple, clear-cut deals, but the purpose is two-fold. One, most deals Aiko makes include dreams in the terms. It is through dreams that Aiko gathers ingredients for wine, cooking, and crafting. Rare ingredients are quite the fixation for this Fae. Though this particular Fae likes to play nice, they are still a Fae. Their sweetness is a lure as much as anything else, bringing in those who would find easy comfort in small kindnesses. They are fiercely protective of their customers, viewing their dreams as a precious resource. The ingredients they prefer are those from good dreams, as well. They bring a sweet flavor with them. And who wants to drink sadness, anyway?

Background ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Current Occupation | Fae Vintner • Level of Schooling | Fae School? Hah. • Past Occupations | Dream therapist, but that.. well. That’s history, darling. • Socioeconomic Status | High-class Fae, creating dream wines for exclusive clientele • History Summary | Life was beautiful. Aiko was free to frolic one moment and Walk the next. They wove their existence from dreams, drifting like a cloud through enchanted forests and over sleepy meadows. They offered solace to those that crossed them, though, as with any Fae, it came at a price. With Aiko, it was a simple price: access to their dreams, and ingredients therefrom. Though the forest has changed, Aiko did not. Not immediately. Perhaps due to the influence of the city, of the creeping shadows now seeping into the dreams they walk, Aiko began to develop a taste for certain things within the dreamscape. These things proved to be problematic to honest therapy, and they made the decision to change professions for the sake of simplicity. Aiko took to making things for sale from things they gathered from dreams. They’d built up quite a supply, as well. Unique and strange items, but the one thing that took off was the wine. It could be sold to both the supernatural and the mundane, and it was quite delicious. The wine quickly became popular for its apparent effect on dreams. Rumors grew and swirled about what wines would do what to your dreams, and the rumor mill itself spurred the sales even further. Aiko had been able to secure a modest living with the sale of some ingredients, but the wine lifted their coffers and their status. Their careful attention to the craft earned them a quick reputation for fine wines. Cheap options sold to anyone kept Aiko’s selection of dreams to wander vast, while their upscale wines, handcrafted in small batches, brought in big clients. With money lining their pockets, they’ve secured a few deals in shops across the city and opened an exclusive location where their high-end wines are sold but theirself. The hours are whenever Aiko decides to open, but you can get on a text mailing list. Across the street, Aiko lives in an atelier penthouse suite, with their workshop space and living quarters blended together.

Race-Specific Questions ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Race info ▸ Fae ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Element Affinity | Void - The Space Between Things • Glamour Specialty | Dream Weaving - Aiko is able to bring things from dreams into reality. Objects, or even abstract things, like emotions. • Views on Mortals | Show me • Views on Vampires | Your • Views on Lycan | Dreams Miscellaneous ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Theme Song | Insert • Favorite Food | Dreams of hunting, breaded in the hard work of a farmer, fried over the passion of a blacksmith, seasoned with thoughts of cheese • Favorite Animal(s) | Foxes, Monitor Lizards, Chameleons, Geckos, Magpies, Crows, Cockatiels are a riot, Frogs • Favorite Music Genre | Vaporwave, Lo-Fi • Favorite Haunt | Home, or a bar to sample other alcohols and folks. • Signature Weapon | Insert • Preferred Vices | Shrooms and Pot • Pet Peeve | A ruined rare ingredient. • Guilty Pleasure | Wet dreams and playing the antagonist in a nightmare, but never simultaneously.

@CitrusArms

Simply for the guilty pleasures I have no choice but to approve

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Clayton Radshaw - Exiled lycan.

Basic Information

Name: Clayton Radshaw
Nickname(s): Clay
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Birthday: 04/04 (Aries)
Race: Lycan
Rank/Status: Lone Wolf

Appearance

Height: 6'1
Build: Solid
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color & Style: Dark, long, disheveled. Always seems a few days overdue a cut.
Skin Tone: Fair / tanned.
Notable Marks: Tattoos and scars of such number that they become unremarkable.
Typical Clothing Style: Practical, functional, well worn.
Aura/First Impression: Intimidating, cold, cocky, a bit rough-around-the-edges kind of guy.
Voice: Low, husky, soft and slightly gravelly.

Psychology

Hobbies/Interests
✦ Drinking
✦ Fighting
✦ F^^^ing
(Not necessarily in that order)
Likes
✦ Whisky
✦ Motorbikes
✦ Tattoo's
Dislikes
✦ Authority
✦ Technology
✦ Vegans
Fears
✦ Being controlled
✦ Losing control
✦ Claustrophobia
Habits
✦ Smoking when drunk
✦ Making dumb A$$ bets
✦ Keeping his word
Vices
✦ Short tempered
✦ Fear of commitment/ Self loathing
✦ Drinking

Core Motivation: He's running, has been for as long as he can remember. It's always been from one thing or another. Been at it so long that he can't even remember why he first started, but he sure as hell isn't going to stop and look back now.

Personality Overview: Clayton can seem a bit brash and rude, and that's likely because he is, but despite his rough-around-the-edges demeanour he is actually quite a caring guy. His anger often gets the better of him and in those moments he might seem compassionless, but he is haunted by those moments and the awful things said and done.

He tries to do right, not by the law but by his own sense of moral code. Few understand what that might be because he is so slow and reluctant to trust.
Right, wrong, good, bad, the future, the past. All these things are a plague on his mind that he uses alcohol to wash away.

Although if he does happen let someone close, to truly let them in, know that he would die for them without hesitation, and just as easily tear their entire world apart if they ever purposely betray him.

Grudges are just unpaid debts and all debts must be paid, eventually.

Relationships and Reputation

Openness to Friendship (1-5): 2
Openness to Romance (1-5): 4
Romantic Preferences: Casual/flirty/short term/polyamory.
Current Romantic Interests: None
View on Forbidden Relationships: "Don't tell me who I can or can't be with."
Biggest Turn-ons:
✦ Tattoo's
✦ Leather
✦ Confidence
Biggest Turn-offs:
✦ Pet play
✦ Being belittled
✦ Immaturity
How They Handle Love: Has a fear of commitment. Pushes it away if it gets too close, too real. Self sabotaging by messing it up. Can't be hurt if they don't get close.
Reputation Among Their Race/Faction: A traitor, reckless, wild. Exiled.
Relationship with the Glamour: It's a cage. A big one, but a cage nonetheless.
Known Enemies: Everyone who's not his friend.
Known Friends Friends are just enemies who haven't stabbed you in the back yet.
Known Family Members:
Father is a washed up cripple drunk.
Mother was put down by the wardens after slowly losing her mind.
Younger sister missing for years after running away, presumed dead.

Background

Current Occupation: Mechanic
Level of Schooling(if any): Early dropout.
Past Occupations: Bouncer / Dealer / Inmate
Socioeconomic Status: Mid.
History Summary:
Clay has already lived a life, one full of hardship and loss. Poverty and pain. A deadbeat father who was never around, a struggling single mother loosely tethered to reality and a rough merciless neighbourhood devouring hope and prosperity like light to a black hole.

His upbringing was tragic but no worse than the average poorly educated family stuck in a poverty stricken cycle of bad influences, poor options and little hope. Only he was lycan and part of a small dying pack.

It was no surprise when he fell into a life of petty crime. Even at a young age an unrelenting rage burned in his heart. His tendency towards violence and utter ruthlessness lead him up the pack hierarchy where for a short time he had it all. He was living the high life (by his previous standards) up until he wasn't.

In a game that doesn't end you're guaranteed to eventually lose. Clay lost everything and badly. It was a bloody betrayal, one that cost him 7 years of his life locked away behind bars and saw him exiled from his former pack with the promise of murder should he ever return. The only reason he wasn't killed was because those that remain were too weak to do so.

Race-Specific Questions

▸ Lycans:
✦Born or Turned?: Born
✦Reaction to Full Moon: Heightened emotions, senses and desires. Itchy skin. Shorter attention. Less focused. More aggression. More hunger.
✦Pack Loyalty Level: Exiled
✦Views on Mortals: Pity for the blind. Respect for the Wardens. Disgust for the fang bangers & blood bags.
✦Views on Vampires: They are all pompous c^^t's but at least they don't pretend to be anything anything other. Tolerable at times.
✦Views on Fae: The worst of them. A talking Fae is a lying Fae. A breathing Fae is an untrustworthy Fae. The true architects of this prison. Would be better off without them.

Miscellaneous

Theme Song:
Scars - Stonesour
Omerta - Lamb of God
Jekyll & Hyde - 5 Finger Deathpunch

Favorite Food: Italian
Favorite Animal(s): Crows
Favorite Music Genre: Metal
Favorite Haunt: Gutterbane chop-shop.
Signature Weapon: Fists, Tooth and claw
Preferred Vices: Drinking
Pet Peeve: Being corrected
Guilty Pleasure: Bowling

@Dark Light

I also Approve!!!!

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

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Mentions/Interactions: Phia @princess, Meiyu @Tae

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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.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

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.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

@Ctenoid Soul Approved on my end as well

✨Beyond The Veil✨

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.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

---

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."