Oso

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Dominic Blackmoor

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Abandoned Warehouse • Time: Dusk

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

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The silence held long after Kessler’s voice faded.

Dominic stood there, eyes low, fixed on the floor and the pool of blood still wet around Logan’s boots. The bottle hung loose in his hand, the other resting at his belt, unmoving. The sway of that single bulb above him carved lines into his face, deeper than usual, catching the gray in his beard and the hard shape of his jaw. For the first time in a long time, he looked tired. Not broken, never that, just heavy in a way only men who carry way more than there share ever really are.

But then he blinked, and the weight in his gaze shifted. It didn’t disappear, but rather it just hardened into something sharper.

He looked to Lucian first, then to Kessler. His voice came quiet, low, not loud enough to cut the room… but heavy enough to still it.

“We bury him high,” he said. “Where the sun hits first.”

He stepped back toward Logan’s body, crouching beside him one last time.
The quiet settled around him like smoke.

“I want it to be the kind of place where the wind never forgets his name,” he said softly.
“If we couldn’t give him peace in life… then we’ll give him light in death.”

He stood again, slower this time. Not from exhaustion …from purpose. Like the motion itself was part of the moment, part of the ritual. He looked down one more time, then turned away from the corpse and toward the space where his two most trusted brothers left had gathered.

“Once the grave’s filled,” he said, his voice deeper now, “we call Church.”

The word didn’t echo, it landed solid like something sacred.

“And not just the patches,” he added. “I want the prospects there too. All of them. The Newbloods need to see this with their own eyes.” He said, referring to his fallen brother’s bloodied kutte. “They need to understand what it really means to ride with us. What it means to lose one of our own.”

He paused, letting the silence fill in the meaning. It wasn’t about shame. It wasn’t about fear. It was about clarity.

“Every kutte in this pack carries weight,” he said. “They need to feel it.”

His boots moved across the floor again, slow and deliberate, until he came to stand beside the two men who would carry the weight of Logan’s legacy and responsibilities forward. He didn’t touch them, didn’t need to. Just stood in their space with that same quiet gravity he always carried.

“You both showed up,” he said, voice calm again. “Like always.”

There was a pause.

And then, finally, the storm broke in his voice…not with fury, not with fire, but with something colder. Something final.

“After Church,” he said, “we go hunting.”

✨Beyond The Veil✨

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: The Pink Room • Time: Nighttime

Interactions: A Crow Named Mercy & some lovely dancers • Mentions: Noah @helo

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The rain came soft, like it knew how to be quiet.

It blurred the windshield into stained glass, neon colors bleeding through each drop until the city looked like a bruise waiting to happen. Halcyon always had a way of looking better through the lens of glass and distance. Locke watched the streets slip past from behind the wheel, the Obsidian Coupe humming beneath him with all of the luxury and power money could by. It wasn’t the kind of car meant to be driven fast. It was meant to glide, to turn heads… But he knew how to handle it, fast, slow, everything in between. It was a beast under his control and not the other way around.

Inside, everything was leather and low light. The scent of clove, bergamot, and subtle magic hung in the air, stitched into the seams of the upholstery like memory. The console glowed in soft silver lines, runes flickering gently along the edges that only activated when he was alone. This was a car built for silence AND spectacle depending on the night.

Locke didn’t rush, the Pink Room wasn’t going anywhere, but he did consider his choice even as he neared his destination.

He turned into the alley behind it, a slow roll of the tires splashing through rainwater and glinting reflections. He pulled to a stop where the cameras didn’t reach, killing the engine with a soft tap of his fingers. The Coupe powered down like a held breath finally released.

He stepped out into the alley and closed the door behind him with a quiet click, rain hissing softly in the background as neon bled across the pavement. A rush of air overhead marked her arrival before she even touched down.

Mercy landed on his shoulder with a rustle of wings, claws light against the fabric of his sirt, her body warm where it perched beside his neck. She tilted her head toward the club, feathers slick and gleaming, and let out a low, irritable caw…one she didn’t bother disguising as anything else.

Locke reached up and brushed his fingers lightly along the back of her head, smoothing the rain drenched feathers with care. His voice came soft, low enough for just the two of them.

“I don’t like the vibe either, darlin’. Never do with places like this,” he murmured. “But you’re stayin’ outside tonight.”

She clicked her beak once in disapproval, shifting her weight.

“Need you keepin’ an eye out. Watch the car, keep to the sky. If anything smells too wrong... make a scene for me, yeah?”

He gave her one last stroke, then tilted his head gently toward the rooftop above. Mercy lingered another second before lifting off in a single beat of her wings, disappearing into the wet dark above.

After she left, Lock straightened the front of his shirt with a practiced tug, smoothing any wrinkles and adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. Everything was in place. His rings caught the low light, his collar sat clean against his throat. He looked the way Locke Devlin always looked…like perfectly tailored trouble with a flawless smile.

The club was waiting.

Red neon spilled across the rain-slick alley, flickering over a warped sign and casting long shadows across the brick. The door buzzed faintly as he approached, and the bouncer…a stone wall of flesh dressed like a man... barely met his eyes before opening it. No questions, no recognition, just vibes.

Locke didn’t break stride as he passed through.

Inside, the heat hit immediately. Not sharp or sweltering, just thick. The lighting was low and moody, sliding across mirrored walls and velvet booths in long, lazy passes. Somewhere in the back, a stage light pulsed slow, catching the glitter along a dancer’s thigh as she moved in perfect rhythm to the beat that throbbed beneath the floorboards.

It was the kind of place where good decisions went to die, dressed in lace and leather and cheap perfume.

Locke let his gaze drift without lingering, and the room noticed him immediately.

The dancers saw the silhouette first. The curve of his figure. The glint of rings. Then came the cut of his jaw, the slope of his grin, the scent of something expensive that clung to him like intention. Every head turned a little too slow to look natural. A few smiles curved in his direction ... soft, curious, or wicked depending on the angle. He returned one with a nod, another with a glance. It was enough to ignite interest, but not nearly enough to invite it.

He didn’t have time for games tonight.

Still… Even a man like him couldn’t deny the bliss of being noticed

Which was good, because he hadn’t made it ten steps past the bar before they found him.

One with hair like spun copper, legs for days and a body poured into latex. Another with kohl-ringed eyes and a serpent tattoo curling up one bare thigh. They moved toward him in perfect synchrony, practiced and fluid, all hips and performative seduction, like they’d smelled the money the moment the door opened.

The redhead got there first. She brushed a hand lightly down the front of his chest, just shy of actually touching.

“You look like trouble,” she purred, her voice sweetened for effect. “The expensive kind.”

“That’s the only kind worth bein’,” Locke replied without missing a beat, his tone low and warm, touched with a slow smile that never quite reached his eyes.

The second one circled around his side, placing a hand on his arm just above the elbow. She leaned in, close enough for the scent of vanilla and vodka to mix with the clove that clung to him like second skin.

“We’ve got a private booth with your name on it,” she murmured. “No pressure. But you wouldn’t regret it.”

Locke glanced toward the back hallway, eyes narrowing slightly. Then he turned back to them, tilting his head with that all too effortless ease.

“Temptin’ offer,” he said softly. “But I’ve already got a date tonight. The kind you don’t keep waitin’.”

The redhead pouted, but not seriously. She ran her fingers down the side of his shirt, appreciating the fabric.

“Then come find us after,” she said, her smile curling like a hook. “We’ll still be here.”

Locke nodded once, that same half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“If I walk back out of this date in one piece, perhaps I’ll consider it.”

They let him go with a few lingering glances, already melting into the low-lit crowd behind him. Locke didn’t look back. He never did.

He slipped through the Pink Room like smoke, his boots soundless on the floor, his posture loose but purposeful. It was darker in the back, the red and pink lights gave way to cooler ones, blue and violet seeping down from low-hung fixtures, drawing a veil over the more private alcoves. And when he found one such alcove, he stopped for a beat and took in the room. All the while, his reason for being there hung like the sword of Damocles over his head.

The message hadn’t said much, just seven simple words.

We need to talk. Tonight. Pink Room.

It wasn’t the wording that bothered him…It was the sender.

Fucking Noah Corvane. The sadist prince himself.

A name that hit more like a memory than real life. Childhood friend, blood-deep bond, twin flame of the girl he used to know like a second skin. There had been a time when the three of them were inseparable. A time when Noah had been fire and chaos and the kind of laughter that made your ribs ache. But that had been years ago. And now...

Now the streets whispered that Noah wasn’t the same man. That something wild had taken root and festered. That the boy who once walked beside Locke had burned a little too long in the wrong direction.

He hadn’t seen him in a while, hadn’t heard as much as word from him in some time.

And now this.

Locke’s hand brushed the inner fabric of his pants pocket, feeling the soft, familiar weight of the deck of cards inside. But to be fair, Locke Devlin wasn’t quite the same either. Halcyon has its way of twisting people…darkening them.

He moved toward the hallway where the private rooms sat like waiting mouths.

He still didn’t know what he was walking into, but he was here. Pressed, polished, and calm as still water.
Lucky as ever.

And for now… that would have to be enough.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Warrior
Location: Airship; Top Deck - Bar
Interactions/Mentions: Wendel @FunnyGuy, Arya @Potter, Phia @princess, Scratch / Val @Apex Sunburn Menzai @samreaper, Meiyu @Tae, Ezekiel @Helo
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: 49 gold
Injuries:
☼ Left shoulder was injured in the battle and is still leaking fluid.

---

Smoke drifted, screams echoed…the scent of fire and blood clung thick in the air like a memory that refused to fade. Bastion stood amid it all, the fluid leaking from his shoulder a faint rhythm against the deck as his sword emanated an aura of blood soaked frost that curled at its edges. Around him, the last moments of the battle unfolded.

He turned just in time to see Arya fend off her attacker with trembling strength, her bow raised like a shield of willpower alone. The girl was hurt, that much was clear, but she hadn’t run. She had stood her ground, and her eagle… her beautiful, fierce bird… defended her without question. Bastion stepped forward to shield them both, just as she looked up at him with gratitude and pain etched into her features.

Her words came gently.

“Thank you, Bastion, as will I. Once we finish here, we can check on the other ladies.”

He nodded, holding her gaze.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “We will.”

His optics scanned beyond her, across the deck, where Menzai fought like a spirit of vengeance wreathed in blood and fire. The wolf’s movements were fierce, but they slowed with every blow. Bastion saw the pain in his limbs, the shake in his stance. He saw him fight through it and win…But he also saw him fall.

And when Menzai collapsed, Bastion moved.

He walked quickly, sword still drawn, optics flickering with urgency. The moment he reached the shifter’s side, he dropped to one knee. The wolf was unconscious, blood slicking the deck beneath him. He would live, but medical attention would be necessary once this chaos was over.

“You did well. You protected them, and once this battle concludes, we will do the same for you.”

Then his head snapped up as he perceived movement at the edge of the deck. Shadows shifting. He had been correct in assumption…Reinforcements.

More of the masked assassins stepped through the smoke, weapons drawn, their presence like a second wave crashing toward what remained of the ship’s defenders. Bastion rose, placing himself between them and the wounded, his fingers tightening on the hilt of his sword.

Gears remained ready as well, flamethrower still smoking from her last brutal attack. The airship was still holding together, but the Stormrider’s damage could be felt by all…especially beneath the weight of the moment.

For a breath, no one moved.

Then...something changed.

The newcomers froze mid-step, one flickering like a mirage. Another staggered, clutching their mask. The air around them rippled, and without warning, the assassins began to vanish. Not retreating… teleporting.

Bastion’s sword remained raised until the last of them disappeared into smoke.

And then… silence.

The wind returned. The creak of the ship’s frame resumed. The warforged turned slowly, eyes scanning for danger. There was none left, only the wounded and the aftermath of it all.

Only the survivors.

Bastion sheathed his blade on his back once more.

Gears had slumped back behind the bar, her body twitching gently, caught between the programming and memories of both past and present. The Necromancer immediately moved in the direction where the assassins teleported from, going on the offensive as he searched for more victims. The others were injured, but still on their feet. Bastion wanted to help them all, but someone else needed him now.

His head turned toward the hallway… toward the bathroom where Phia, Talis, and Meiyu had gone before the attack.

“You two…” He requested to both Arya and Wendel. “Please make sure this warrior receives medical attention, and do what you can for the other passengers. Thank you for your bravery today. I’ll be back, hopefully with the girls.”

He moved quickly but with purpose, one hand still pressed to his wounded shoulder. His footfalls echoed hollowly down the corridor, the remnants of battle trailing behind him like dust in the wind.

The door to the bathroom had been closed but thankfully was unlocked.

He stepped inside, and froze at the sight of it all.

Blood, water, shattered glass and porcelain, burn marks, and the unmoving…blood soaked body of Talis. And there… at the center of it all… were Meiyu & Phia, worse for ware, the former was looking up at a strange crystalline artifact that was floating above them. It was pulsing and thrumming with some kind of ancient energy.

But his eyes were not drawn to the artifact, they were drawn to the sweet girl that was collapsed on the floor unconscious, injured and eyes stained with tears, breathing. Seeing the sight of Phia's chest rising and falling with each breath brought a faint sense of reassurance to Bastion amidst the chaos.

Beside her, the other small woman, Meiyu, reached toward the artifact. Bastion didn’t know what it was, but something about the way her fingers reached for it set off feelings of dread within him.

Then she touched it, and everything changed.

The artifact pulsed once with light so blinding it swallowed the room. Bastion lifted an arm to shield his eyes, but it passed through him, through everything. The air around them tore open, and cracks erupted across the smooth crystalline surface of the floating object.

Then it shattered.

The fragments moved like living things, glimmering shards of pure energy, and in that infinite moment, one of them found him…straight to the sun painted on his chest. It struck like a hammer to the soul.

Bastion convulsed. Light flared through his joints and down his limbs, the warmth of it was too much, too sharp. His systems overloaded for the briefest of seconds. Then something… settled.

A new presence...

He could feel it now. Whatever this artifact was, it had chosen him.

Bastion moved forward, his hand reaching out, trembling, and gently cradled Phia’s unconscious form. He wasn’t sure what was happening, that wasn’t his job. His job was to protect those that could not protect themselves, and right now…Phia was all that mattered.

Each of you have been chosen by the Artifact. As the crystal shatters, and pieces of it begin to scatter like living shrapnel, one of the shards finds each and every one of you. It doesn’t matter where on the ship you are, or whether you are conscious or not. You are now chosen. Just like we saw with Bastion, where the crystalline piece embedded itself into the sun painted on his chest, each one of you will be bonded to a fragment of this Artifact. Please choose where the fragment embeds itself, and make sure you react to all of this in your next post.

This is the moment where everything changes for our group if weary travelers.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

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

---

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

---

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.

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.