Oso

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Approved!

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Warrior
Location: Airship; What's left of the bar side women's bathroom.
Interactions/Mentions: Phia @princess, Meiyu @Tae
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.

---

The light had faded now. What remained was silence, save for the low hum that still lingered in the air like the echo of the artifact’s shattering. The crystalline fragment had buried itself into his chest… becoming one with the sun painted there by an old friend.

Bastion stood still for a long moment, one hand resting lightly over the glowing mark where the fragment now lived, bonded with his plating. His optics adjusted slowly to the wreckage. Blood soaked the grout and the smell of smoke and scorched porcelain hung sharp and bitter in the air.

He turned his gaze toward Meiyu.

She was still standing, thankfully composed. The crystal pulsed just beneath her chest like a second soul, gleaming faintly within the silk she had pulled aside.

Her words were calm, but they carried more than weight… They carried purpose.

“That girl's heart nearly shattered with her ribs. Mind how you carry what's left.”

Bastion bowed his head slightly in quiet acknowledgment, his voice as gentle as could be.

“I will.”

Before he could tend to Phia, his tone shifted, and with it came the truth. Talis was dead. He looked to the girl’s body, who only minutes ago had stood before him, wide eyed and anxious as an organic being could be. He had told her to drink water and had tried to be kind, and now she was gone. There were no words for that kind of failure.

He stepped toward her slowly… Not to touch or disturb her final rest, but to see her one last time. Just to remember.

“Was I too slow? Could I have stopped this?”

He asked it softly, almost to himself.

But then…He heard the smallest voice coming from the girl that thankfully still lived.

“Hello…”

It was barely a whisper, and it pulled him like a tether.

Phia’s body was battered but she was alive, and now she was awake. She looked up at him through swollen, tear-soaked eyes, her smile faint but real. Something about it struck him in a place deeper than his arcane core.

He knelt beside her carefully, his metal fingers brushed the floor to steady himself, and then slowly, reverently, he slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her shoulders. She was so light in his arms, barely registering to his Warforged strength, and so fragile at that moment. He lifted the sweet, injured girl from the blood-soaked floor beneath her, the warmth of his core could be felt against her even through his armored, ivory plating.

“Hello, brave one.” Bastion responded oh so gently.

His voice, for all its mechanical origin, was so quiet it felt human. He held her close, adjusting gently so her wounded arm would not jostle. Every step he took would be careful. Every breath she took would be guarded there in his arms. And within him, a thought surfaced...one he had never spoken aloud, not even to himself before now.

This is what I was made for. Not war. Not orders. This.

Bastion turned to Meiyu one last time.

“I’ll get her somewhere safe. See to the others if you can. There are injured among them as well.”

Then, with Phia in his arms, he carried her from the broken place where the crystal chose them and back out into the light of whatever might come next.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Dominic Blackmoor

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Abandoned Warehouse • Time: Dusk

Interactions: @Potter Tessa • Mentions:

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The back door groaned as it shut behind him.

Rain tapped lightly against the rusted awning overhead, just enough to cut the silence. The concrete was slick beneath his boots, the night air thick with ozone and motor oil, and somewhere off in the distance a siren wailed ... not close, not urgent. Just Halcyon breathing the way it always did after dark.

Dominic stood still for a while, jaw set, shoulders square to the wind like a man trying to remember how to relax but that’s damn sure it’s not time to. The bottle was gone, the rite was done, and Kessler and Lucian knew what they had to do. He trusted them to handle it.

This moment… this one was just for him.

He looked down at his hand, turning it slowly, fingers closing and opening in calm repetition. Logan’s signet ring sat heavy on his finger, still a little too tight and unfamiliar to his hand. It caught the light of the moon just enough for him to see it in detail.

Dominic ran his thumb across the surface, feeling every groove in the worn metal. It used to shine once. Years ago, back when Dom and Logan weren’t too different from Lucian and Kessler. They had been the best of soldiers for his father… But who would’ve thought that they would turn out to be even better leaders. Logan might have; he had always claimed that Dom was the man for the job. Even now, part of Dominic wondered if that was really just because Logan didn’t want the full responsibility himself. The thought always made him smile, but not tonight.

He didn’t shed any more tears despite feeling like he could. That just wasn’t how his grief worked. It lived in his bones, deep and cold, filling the cracks like December ice. His chest ached, but he kept standing, kept breathing. This was the cost of it all. The price for the crown.

People talked about being Alpha like it was some kind of prize. Like all it meant was power, control, respect. But what it really meant… was this… carrying the weight of each and ever dead brother and sister you had to bury because you weren’t there to protect them.

Dominic exhaled slowly and reached into his coat, the phone was cold in his palm. He stared at it for a long time, long enough that the screen went dim once…then again.

The third time he started to call, his thumb hovering over the name.
Tessa.

He hesitated, then canceled it. Turning the screen of himself this time. His eyes closed for a moment as he ran a hand down his face, slow and tired, then pushed back through his rain-damp hair and dragged a breath into his lungs like it might steady him.

It didn’t…So he pulled a cigarette from the tin in his inner pocket, lit it with a practiced flick of his zippo lighter, the flame catching against the edge of his thumb before retreating. The cherry glowed in the dark, and he took a long drag, letting it fill his chest, then exhaled.

This...This was the only peace he got sometimes.

Dominic looked up at the rain, watching the sky for a second like maybe it would offer him some kind of sign from above. But there was no one up there… He’d come to peace with that years ago. So, he just tried again. The phone rang a few times, but ultimately, no answer… Then came the beep.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, cigarette burning between his fingers, mouth barely parted as he found the words.

“Hey. It’s me.” He paused for a long while.

“I know it’s late, but we need to talk. Soon.”

He swallowed, glancing down at the ground, at the rain pooling in the cracks beneath his feet.

“Something happened, Tess,,, Something bad.” he paused again, fighting the urge to just say it outright. He knew it was better to tell her in person. So, he started again… softer this time.

“There’s something I gotta tell you… And…I just need to hear your voice, kiddo. Need to know you’re safe.”

He let that hang for a second.

“We’re calling Church tonight. Whole pack needs to be there. But I want to talk to you first if I can. It’s important Tessa.”

He ended the message and let the phone drop back into his coat. Stared out into the dark for a little while longer, hand lifting the cigarette to his lips again…the smoke curling up past his eyes and into the night.

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: The Fang

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The Cracked Fang was quieter than usual when he arrived.

The neon sign flickered against the wet pavement, painting a pale red fang across the sidewalk like blood that never washed away. Inside, the usual crowd had thinned, though the smell of smoke and spilled beer still clung to the walls. Muted music played low on a dusty jukebox, and a pair of half-drunk regulars grumbled over cards at a corner table.

Dominic didn’t speak as he passed through. He just nodded to the bartender, got one in return, and headed out back.

Rain tapped faintly on the alley’s rusted metal fixtures, and the motion-sensor light sputtered to life as he approached the door tucked behind the crates. He keyed in the code ... the one only the wolves knew ... and waited for the soft click that signaled the lock giving way. Then he pulled the door open and slipped inside.

The hallway beyond was narrow and steep, a concrete corridor that led beneath the bar’s foundation, down into the belly of what used to be an old prohibition storehouse. Now, it was something else entirely.

It was home.

The walls were lined with old Iron Fangs memorabilia ... faded black-and-white photos of long-dead wolves, old kuttes framed in glass, cracked helmets, bent blades, dented flasks. Each and every one told a piece of their story.

The room at the end of the hall was cold when he stepped into it. It was wide, windowless, and lined with worn leather chairs and rusted weapon racks. But it was the table that anchored the space.

Twelve feet long and carved from a single solid slab of petrified wood, dark as black, with veins of silver that shimmered faintly in the low light. This was one of a kind. Here, the Iron Fangs held Church.

Dominic crossed the room slowly. The silence was louder here when the room was empty. He moved with purpose, though his body felt like it weighed more with every step. He reached the far end of the table ... the head of it ... where the Alpha’s seat waited. He didn’t sit at first. Just stood there with both hands resting on the back of the chair, looking out at the empty seats. Each one a voice, each one a memory. And one of them… One of them would never be filled again by a man who had earned his seat at that table.

He pulled the chair back, the legs scraping slow across the stone floor. Then he sat, and the weight in his chest seemed to settle with him.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey from the bottle stashed beside the table. The amber liquid caught the light as he lifted it, fingers curling slow around the rim as he took a single sip, then set it down in front of him. His hand shifted slightly across the table… stopping on the space to his right. To Logan’s seat.

The Red Right Hand of the Iron Fangs.

The man who used to sit beside him through every hard decision, every close call, every damn impossible vote.

Just empty as could be.

Dominic’s fingers lingered there, resting flat on the wood like maybe he could still feel him in it. Like the presence of his closest friend hadn’t left yet. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him, ran his hands through his beard and let out a heavy breath. His mind raced, words swirling with all the things he could say when the room was full. None of them felt right.

How the fuck do you tell your family their brother is gone?

Dom, wanted vengeance. No, more than that… He wanted to burn the city, wanted to pull the truth from someone’s mouth with his bare hands and make them bleed for every second Logan suffered. And part of him… part of him could feel his father in that place of hate that was raging inside of his mind; the very part of his father that led to his demise.

Hate is a powerful tool, but that wasn’t what this moment needed. This moment needed a leader. The kind of leader Logan always believed he could be. The kind his pack needed now more than ever. So, he stayed still, his hand still resting on the seat beside him.

And waited for his brothers and sisters to walk through that door. It was time for Church.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

---

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

---

Cassius hadn’t even meant to listen, but he heard everything.

He had crouched there beside her, and beside Fritz, just to make sure she didn’t faint. He only wanted to ground her, or at least that was the reason he gave himself. But now he was hearing it too…The words and accusations, Lorenzo’s misguided idiocy, and Alexander’s fucking lies.

Charlotte trembled beside him, he could tell that every fiber of her being wanted to burst through those doors. He wouldn’t let her, not like this. But thanfully, he didn’t have to stop her. Just in time, Count Fritz stepped in.

Fritz took her hand gently, placed it against his chest, and began to walk her through the simplest, yet most powerful thing in the world. Breathing. And somehow, it worked.

The tension in her shoulders loosened, if only slightly. The frantic look in her eye began to dull. When the Count revealed to Cassius that she had been cursed, he pushed the stress of the revelation out through a long exhale.

“Thank you.”

He spoke it softly, genuinely. And then, his voice dropped just a little further.

“I’ve dealt with curses before... not quite like this, maybe... but enough to know that you’re right. For now, all she can do is endure.”

He looked down at Charlotte again, still holding her hand with no intention of letting go.

Her face was pale and tired, but calmer now. Maybe the worst of the storm had passed, who knew, but at the very least he hoped relief was imminent for her. He could see in her posture that her plans had changed. She no longer reached for the door…Good…At least that part was over.

He rose slowly, guiding her up with him, his hand never leaving hers.

“Count Hendrix...” Cassius looked to the man, his tone respectful, “...would you mind giving us a moment?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Would you do her one more favor and keep listening? If anything else comes through that door, anything important... let us know later.”

And with that, Cassius turned, drawing Charlotte gently behind him. Their hands remained clasped as he led her away from the door, away from the noise and the rage and the pain of what had been said.

They moved down the corridor, past tapestries and statues and all of the other fancy bullshit places like this were riddled with…through a small, arched alcove and into one of the old servant nooks just off the hallway. It was quiet, and that’s all that really mattered.
Once inside, Cassius finally turned, his eyes sweeping over her with a quiet intensity that was unmistakable in its worry.

“You alright?”

The words weren’t poetic or as charming as his usual fare. He watched her face, her body language, looking for the truth in all the spaces he could.

He stepped closer, just enough to bridge the gap between them, his voice was gentle as he spoke again. “You don’t have to talk yet if you’re not ready... but I need you to understand something.”

His hand reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture uncharacteristically careful. “No one gets to define you. Not a prince... Not a count... Not a prick like Alexander Deacon... Not your father... Not me… Only you get to do that.”

He paused though his gaze never left hers.

“You hear me, Lottie?”

The silence pressed in, but he didn’t shy away from it, instead he continued and his next words came out even softer.

“You are not weak.”

He took another step closer.

“You are not shameful.”

His hand found hers again, thumb brushing gently across her knuckles.

“And you are not alone.”

He let those words hang in the balance of what little space remained between them.

Then, quieter still…

“Tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen. Anything.”

✨Beyond The Veil✨

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: The Pink Room • Time: Nighttime

Interactions: A nameless girl in the wrong place at the wrong time, @helo Noah & @Tpartywithzombi Wren • Mentions: N/A

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The dancer reached him right on cue.

Not too fast, not too shy. She’d been sent, and she knew it. Locke could see it in the way she hesitated near the booth, like she expected someone else to be watching. Maybe they were, but he didn’t bother glancing to find out.

She approached with a try-too-hard-to-be-sexy kind of sway, hips catching the slow pulse of the music, eyes half-lidded and glossy with intention. Her fingertips traced the edge of the table as though she just knew he’d wish that touch was against his flesh.

He didn’t move, not even to address her with his eyes. He let her come in close, let her tuck herself just beside the booth, her hand brushing the back of the seat near his shoulder. He could smell her perfume now, soft and sweet and layered over way too much hairspray. She leaned in slightly, lips near his ear.

“Can I sit?”

Locke finally turned his head her way, there was nothing but apathy in his Auburn eyes…and something about that drove the woman crazy.

He let his gaze settle there for a bit, and offered a smile just charming enough and just juxtaposed enough from his eyes to make the girl second guess if she even knew how to speak.

“You can,” he said, quiet and calm. “But don’t get comfortable, darlin’…I won’t be staying long.”

The woman blinked, caught off guard not by what he said, but by the way he said it. Like he already knew what was going to happen next. She gave a slight nod, almost a bow, and eased down onto the seat beside him. He pushed his drink her way and let his hand settle on her thigh as though she belonged to him.

“Have a drink if you wish, love. These next few minutes have the potential to get quite interestin’…If you’re gonna be here, you better relax.”

Locke turned back toward the hallway without another word as the girl took a long swig of his drink with a confused smile. Just in time, too, because they were getting close now.

He reached for his glass again just as the girl set it back down, took another sip and let his hand slide another inch up the dancer’s thigh.

When Noah finally stepped in, Locke didn’t stand. He didn’t shift a muscle, he just looked up with that same lazy charm he flashed the woman, calm and collected as always.

“Been a long time, Lucky. Glad you showed. I was beginning to think you didn’t like me anymore.”

Locke’s smile tugged a little deeper, though it never quite reached the warmth it used to.

“Evenin’, little brother.” he said, voice soft, easy, and just familiar enough to perhaps stir up old memories. “I wouldn’t have missed an invitation from the Prince of Halcyon...No, no no, not for the world.”

His gaze slid to Wren, slow and deliberate. Her eyes were already locked on his, and for a moment it felt like time slipped sideways. She didn’t speak, didn’t move…just looked.

And he let her bask in his fucking glory.

There was no challenge in him, no reaction. Just an awareness that ran deep and steady. She could stare all she liked. Because he always stared back in his own way.

Locke tilted his head slightly.

“Wren, this is Locke. Locke, this is my Wren.”

Locke offered a small nod. It was polite…well…just enough. Then he reached into his coat and pulled a card from his deck, the Jack of Hearts, and let it turn lazily between his fingers, spinning slow with a flick of his wrist. The card caught the low light, reflecting pink, blue, and the sharp glint of something colder.

“Charmed,” he said.

“I’ve got business for you.”

Locke left his old friend’s statement suspended there, in the air for a beat or two. The club moved on around them, unaware of the monsters that lurked in their midst.

He leaned back just a little farther in the booth, letting the card fall back into his hand and disappear like it had never been there as he reached for his drink once more. He took a sip and then turned to the dancer beside him and offered her another drink.

“Interestin’…” He said as his eyes watched the way the girls lips grasped the glass as she took in the whiskey. He moved the hand from her thigh up to her face as he brushed a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. “You hear that, love? Little bro has job for ol’ Lucky Locke.”

He turned his eyes back to Noah with intent. Still as relaxed as before, but obviously curious.

“Then let’s talk, brother”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: The Royal Banquet

The hall was already fraying at the seams.

What had begun as a banquet was unraveling into something else entirely. Tension clung to every word, too thick to ignore and too dangerous to name. The wine had long since lost its warmth, laughter had thinned into strained and uncomfortable chuckles, and the air felt tight with the weight of threats and scandal alike.

No one noticed the draft, not at first.

The first sound came softly. A metallic scrape, barely audible over the music and chatter. Then it came again, heavier this time. A slow drag across the marble floor, steady and deliberate, it increased in volume with every second that passed.

Then the doors opened.

Not with drama. Not with force. They opened with perfect calm, but if the creaking of these banquet doors hadn’t of draw attention… The presence of the man behind them would have.

The wind came in first, a cool breath that kissed the flames and swept along the floor. Candles guttered, voices faltered, heads began to turn. Conversations stuttered and fell silent mid-sentence. And then a force of nature walked through the doors.

There was nothing rushed in his movements. No need for speed or spectacle. He stepped into the hall with the kind of control that demanded attention on its own. His coat was long and black, trimmed in blood-colored thread so dark it only showed in the reflection of light. His boots left an echo behind them, perfectly paced, and every step felt heavier than the last. His hair was tousled by the night air, stark white and wind-whipped…And his eyes…sharp green, cold and unblinking, swept across the room without hesitation.

In his hand, he held a chain.

Thick and iron-wrought, blackened by time and soot, it wound around his gloved palm and dragged behind him as he walked. The sound of it cut through the silence with a steady rhythm. Each link scraped against the marble floor with the weight of wicked anticipation.

He said nothing, and yet his eyes somehow met those of every single person in the room.

The banquet had gone quiet. Completely. People shifted in their seats but didn't speak.

The man kept walking, each step brought more of the chain forward, and the question it asked grew louder in every heart.

What was on the other end?

He reached the center of the hall and came to a slow, deliberate stop. Not near the head table, not before the king…No he stood in the perfect center of the room, where no one could pretend they didn’t see him. The chain pulled taut behind him, stretched to its full length. Then, without a word, he gave it a single pull.

The sound of it echoed.

From the darkened corridor, the figure stumbled forward.

A woman, bound and gagged, dragged into view by the chain coiled around her wrists and waist. She wore white, a dress once regal now soaked and torn at the hem. Her bare feet slipped against the floor. Her hair fell in damp strands around her face, and her eyes…wide and searching…looked for someone who might help her and found no one.

She was not a stranger, not to all of them at least. Some knew this woman as a server, last seen at the birthday party for Lord Drake Edwards. The one where everyone wound up drunk in the most suspicious of fashions.

The moment stretched. Gasps slipped from noble lips, but still, Kilian didn’t speak.

He didn’t look at her.

His attention lifted, slow and unshaken, and settled on the throne. More specifically, on the queen seated beside her king. His gaze passed over the man entirely as if he were a shadow dressed in a crown.

When he inclined his head, it was precise, not respectful but not cold, either. Just perfectly measured and controlled.

Then finally, came his voice. Smooth and calm, but low and rich with quiet certainty.

“Forgive the interruption, Your Majesty. I’m sure you were moments away from my introduction.”

He paused, letting the words stretch and settle.

“But I thought it might be time someone brought a little decorum back to this celebration.”

✨Beyond The Veil✨

@Theyra

Approved! Welcome to the pack!!!!!

✨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.