Oso

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, Menzai @samreaper, Arya @potter, Minerva/Wendel @funnyguy, Gears, The Necromancer 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.

---

Phia’s cries rang out across the broken deck, louder than the chaos or the mournful moan of a damaged ship with strained elemental rings.

“Menzai!” she screamed, her voice cutting through the noise around them harshly. “No... Please no!”

Bastion’s eyes turned immediately, following her gaze to where the warrior lay slumped against a strange woman’s back. One he did not recognize. Blood pooled beneath Menzai, and his arm hung limp at his side.

“Give it to him! Give it to Menzai!”

She clawed toward him, her movements thrumming with desperation. Bastion’s grip on her shifted gently, adjusting her weight as she strained. He could sense how much pain she was in, yet she still wanted to give what little hope she had to someone else.

“Do not worry,” he said softly, stepping toward the others. “We will not lose either of you. We will find help for you both.”

Arya’s voice met his next.

“Do we have a healer?”

That question seemed to hang in the air.

And then… a voice answered.

It came from behind them, calm but cold, and with a dash of reluctant disdain.

“You do.”

The man who stepped forward wore a sleek, deep black longcoat with sharp shoulders and a dramatic, high collar that flares outward like bat wings. Beneath which is a striking plum-purple waistcoat accented by a bon white cravat. His presence is understated but somehow immense all at the same time. This is the gentleman who appeared from the quarters above on the balcony and joined the fight with quite the show of power.

Gears, who had been frozen for a moment too long, jolted into motion as if yanked from some far-off place. Her eyes widened when she saw Phia in Bastion’s arms, then darted to Menzai nearby, still slumped.

“Everyone! Clear the bar! Right now!” she barked. “Big guy, set her down gentle. That surface is clean enough and stable enough for what she needs.”

Bastion nodded without question. He moved to the bar and lowered Phia with care, placing her on her uninjured side. His hands were impossibly gentle, adjusting her hair away from her eyes and making sure her weight did not rest on her wounds.

He turned to find the strange man already striding forward.

The necromancer stood tall, yet still somehow sunken. He didn’t glance down at Phia, not yet…Instead, he spoke as he looked across them all.

“Lie the other one beside her.”

His words referenced Menzai, though there was no warmth in the command, only confidence.

“I can save them both.”

His hand raised slowly, fingers curling. A faint chill touched the air.

Bastion’s optics narrowed. This was not divine energy. No warm glow, no golden light. What flowed from the man’s hand was something else entirely. The shadows around him quivered as threads of darkness extended like ribbons, wrapping through the air and down toward Phia’s broken body.

It was not cold, exactly… but it was wrong. Like watching a wound heal in reverse.

Phia’s breathing slowed, then stabilized. The bruises on her ribs began to fade, the torn muscle and broken skin threading themselves back together with sinew shaped by shadow. The light in her crystal pulsed once, in rhythm with whatever the man had done, and then stilled.

Menzai would be next.

“Someone place him beside her. I will not ask again.”

Bastion moved without hesitation, his damaged shoulder leaking faintly as he crossed the space between the bar and where Menzai slumped. He gave Minerva a quiet glance, then knelt beside the fallen wolf.

“You’ve done enough,” he said gently to the woman now supporting the man. “Let me take him now.”

He reached beneath Menzai with care, avoiding his bleeding shoulder and stabilizing his back as he lifted the shifter into his arms. The wolf’s body was heavier than Phia’s, but Bastion carried him just the same…like something precious, not a burden. His limbs were slack, but faint breaths still came.

He laid Menzai down beside Phia on the bar, mirroring the same gentleness, adjusting both of them so they faced one another in hopes that it would bring them comfort.

He then stepped back, allowing the dark healer to begin his work.

The necromancer extended both hands now, standing tall behind the bar as his fingers traced runes in the air...runes that shimmered with an unnatural violet light. Whispers followed them, soft and distant, like the echo of chanting voices speaking from a forgotten crypt. The light from the sun dimmed slightly, not by shadow, but as if the world itself leaned away from what was happening.

Phia’s wounds glowed faintly beneath her skin. So did Menzai’s.

The shadows seeped into flesh like water into soil, wrapping nerves and fusing broken bones from the inside out. The bruises faded…wounds closed….and now both of them breathed easier, though their bodies still bore the exhaustion, the damage had been reversed, at least enough to ensure they would be okay.

The necromancer lowered his hands.

His expression had not changed once.

“They will live,” he said simply. He turned then, walking away from the bar like a man who had simply completed a transaction.

Bastion stepped forward again, looking down at Phia and Menzai with his optics dimmed.

“They will need rest. All of us will. But first... thank you.”

His voice reached Arya, Minerva, Gears, and even the necromancer’s retreating back.

“For fighting back, and for helping those in need.”

He looked down at Phia once more, and this time he allowed himself the smallest smile.

“You’re okay now.”

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

Location: The Bridge of the Stormrider
Mentions: First Mate Duren Reiss
Interactions: Scratch @Apex Sunburn

---

The bridge of the Stormrider was in chaos. The wounded groaned. Broken panels sparked and hissed. The air hung thick with the iron stench of blood and the aroma of ozone…and the pulsing hum of the elemental ring was beating faint and irregular, like a heart too tired to keep pace. Somewhere aft, a control panel crackled as arcane script unraveled into static. One of the steering servos gave out with a shriek and a burst of blue-white light.

But Captain Jovik Cindralis didn’t hear any of it.

He stood motionless near the shattered forward console, framed in the ruined light of his once-proud helm. Blood ran a thin line down his temple, curling along the edge of his cheekbone before dripping quietly onto the worn decking below. His coat hung heavy, torn and darkened where it had caught the worst of the blast. In one hand, he still clutched his Brelish war saber; old steel, nicked and blackened from the fight. In the other, a custom elemental pistol, its barrel still trailing smoke.

At his feet lay the bodies. Masked assassins, cut down where they’d tried to seize the bridge. Crewmen who died defending it. And Duren…his first mate, his friend, the only bastard in the sky he trusted more than himself, was dead among them. The man had died a hero.

Jovik’s eyes stared through the bodies like they weren’t even there. His jaw was slack, his breath shallow. All the noise in the world had collapsed into a dull, endless ringing in his ears.

Something in him had broken loose during the fight. Not shattered, but... unmoored.

He didn’t know how long he stood there.

It might’ve been seconds. Might’ve been minutes. Time stretched thin in moments like this, suspended between grief and duty. Then a sound filtered through.

A voice…faint and crackling, just beneath the buzz of the broken comms.

“Engine control to bridge… you have to land the airship as soon as possible…”

At first it didn’t register.

“…I say again, you have to land the airship as soon as possible…”

His fingers twitched. The saber in his hand scraped faintly against the floor. He blinked.

“…engines we have left aren’t going to last much longer… hull’s on its last legs…”

Jovik sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. The ringing in his ears dulled just enough for the weight of the message to settle.

“…elemental core is stable for now… but we can’t power any more flight control surfaces without risking another meltdown.”

The world slammed back into motion.

Jovik turned, eyes sharpening back to form. He dropped to a knee beside Duren’s body…just for a second. Just long enough to press a hand to the man’s shoulder and mutter something the rest of the bridge couldn’t hear.

Then he stood.

He holstered the pistol, slammed a fist into the override rune on the wall, and barked into the damaged comm line with steady fury.

“Scratch, this is Captain Cindralis. Message received. We’ll find a place to land. Just buy us as much time as you can, I’ll buy you a bottle for every minute. Bridge out.”

He turned toward the shattered console, hands already flying across the controls. Fire spat from exposed lines, but he didn’t flinch. Sparks hissed across his knuckles, but he didn’t stop. He whispered in Draconic, cajoled the elemental ring with every ounce of experience he had left, and set to work rerouting what power they could spare to navigation.

His war wasn’t over. Not yet. The ship was bleeding, the skies were burning, and his first mate was gone.

But the Stormrider was still flying. And so was her captain.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

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

---

The engine room breathes like a wounded beast.

Pipes rattle, a copper plate peels free from the wall and clangs to the floor, the scent of scorched oil hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the reality of an injured elemental barely leashed within.

Inside this crucible of wires, runes, and pressure valves, Scratch’s hands move fast. There is no time for hesitation. Each lever flip and sigil realignment sends a jolt of risk through the ship’s heart. Vallena shadows him closely, steady her shaky hands as he rattles off coordinates and breaker numbers, those same hands darting to comply.

Together, they go to war against the equation of collapse.

The arcane battery whines and pressure flares in the containment valves, then drops. Sparks rise, but no rupture follows. The elemental…glowing, pulsating, and furious…quiets slightly within its housing. The air stops shuddering, and for a moment, it seems they’ve done it.

But nothing this broken is ever truly fixed that easily.

Somewhere in the manifold, a hiss escapes…a hairline fracture. Red warning glyphs blink along the ceiling. What was saved is not sustainable. The elemental remains bound, but the bindings are frayed. The containment circle pulses with strain, its light uneven.

The Stormrider IS stable... but just for now.

The damage is too deep. You’ll need to set this ship down before long or risk total system failure. The core is currently a candle burning low….Let it burn too long, and the flame will consume everything around it.

Behind the curtain, Ezekiel works in silence. His fingers move with reverence, tending to Callandra’s wounds with care that borders on devotion. She remains unconscious, but alive. Each bandage, each whispered word, pushes against the chaos encroaching from beyond the door.

When his duty to her is done, Ezekiel turns his care inward. The splinter comes free from his leg with a sickening pull, but the bleeding holds. The pain sharpens him as he breathes…and he endures. The paladin does not falter.

Now, in the quiet after bombs, assassins, and the possibility of ruination…the crew faces a new truth. You survived, but it’s not yet time to rest. You’ve earned this moment of calm, but the issues at hand will not wait forever.

The Stormrider needs a landing. Captain Sindralis must be notified. You’re sure he’s been fighting for his life behind that helm doing what he could to protect the lives of all onboard.

My friends, I ask you again…What do you do?

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Dominic Blackmoor

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Church • Time: Dusk

Mentions / Interactions: His Pack •

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The door groaned shut behind the last body that crossed the threshold, the sound dragging behind it like the end of a long, tired breath. Boots scuffed against concrete. Chairs scraped their way into place, legs creaking beneath the weight of men and women who’d seen too much and some who hadn’t seen nearly enough. The air inside this den of wolves was already thick, not from smoke, but from breath, heat, and plenty of tension.

Near the back, a voice cut through. Not loud, just young and wrong, sharp with that idiot confidence only fresh meat could manage. Whatever he said was followed by a ignorant little laugh. Something stupid enough to usually make his companions join in...but no one did. Dom looked up and locked eyes with the kid, and the shift in the room was instant.

Every Iron Fang in that space could feel it, that sudden and harsh drop in pressure. Dom’s stare wasn’t rage, not tonight. It was colder than that. The prospect froze, mouth still half-open, and whatever cocky blood had been pumping in his veins turned to ice water. One of the other prospects tapped him on the shoulder as though to tell him that he needed to chill out, that he wasn’t supposed to goof off here. The gesture was unnecessary, to be honest, since Dom’s eyes communicated the message more than clearly. The prospect shut up, sat still, and didn't move again.

There had always been weight behind Dominic Blackmoor. He didn’t need to shout to be heard, didn’t need to fight to prove he could kill. His younger days had proven just how much of a killer he could be, if needed. He had a presence that filled a room before he spoke, and stayed long after he left. But tonight, something was different in him. Tonight, Dom looked more dangerous than even the beasts they could all collectively shift into.

Dom turned and reached behind the chair at the head of the table, the old, scarred throne that only he sat in. He pulled the case out from beneath it, same case they only opened when Church was in session. Every pair of eyes in the room followed him. No one breathed too loud, and not a soul blinked.

He opened it. Inside, wrapped in cloth older than some of the youngbloods in the room, was the gavel.

It was made from silver as pure as any that existed in this world.

This wasn't just for show or for ritual, it was tradition. Dom carefully unwrapped the cloth around it and took it into his hand.

The sound was immediate. A sharp, wet hiss that curled through the air like a snake under coals. Smoke rose from his palm. The stink of burning flesh crept into the air. He didn’t flinch or grunt or hesitate. Didn’t even look down.

He lifted it slow with intention and then brought it down hard against the table.

The crack of it rang like a gunshot in a canyon, sharp enough to pull the breath out of your chest. The sound echoed off the walls and no one said a word.

Dom placed the gavel aside, slow and careful, hand still smoking, skin blistered and raw around the grip. Still, he didn’t so much as glance at the damage. Instead, he reached down and pulled Logan's ring from his burned hand and laid it on the table next to him...right where Logan used to sit, the spot that would stay empty after this night ended. At least for now.

Dom let the silence stretch.

Then finally, he spoke. And when he did, it came from somewhere deep and cold, somewhere so full of grief and fury it was a wonder the room didn’t shake with it.

"Church is in session."

His gaze swept across the room. He witnessed every single one of them feel it, the weight of what they’d lost.

"Logan…Our brother," he started, voice low like a thunderstorm, "was found in the old glassworks warehouse tonight."

That was it. No lead-in, no sugar coating…just the truth, cut clean.

"He was tortured, brutalized, murdered, and left there like trash. They knew who he was, they knew what he meant, and they did it anyway."

His knuckles whitened against the table, blistered hand curling like he wanted to punch God in the mouth.

"This wasn’t just a kill...It was a message, and I need you all to understand that we're gonna answer it."

He looked down at the ring, then back at them.

"I need you to dig. Do you hear me? I need all of you to help me figure out who did this to our brother. And once they are found, we are going to remind this entire city what happens when you spill our blood right here in our own fucking territory."

He straightened, shoulders square, and let his eyes meet each and every one of theirs.

"You know I don’t want to go to war. It's not what I preach. Never has been...But I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure that my brothers and sisters are vindicated. Find whoever it is that's hunting our family and bring them to me. Plain and simple." His words held all the finality of the book of Revelation. He was serious, and he needed them to deliver on this mission. There was a pause, as Dom's words spread across the room and into the minds of the only family that mattered. Before anyone else could respond, he said his final piece.

"This is your chance to speak. Say what you need to say now, whether it’s words for Logan, questions for me…or if you have information about the ones who did this. Now's your chance. Once we leave this table, it’s blood for blood."

✨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

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Locke didn’t respond right away. He didn’t rush to defend himself or fire something back just to match Noah’s heat. That wasn’t his rhythm. Instead, he twirled the glass in his hand idly as though the swirl of ice and amber was the only thing worthy of his attention. A smile followed. Unhurried, subtle…the kind of smile that didn’t care if anyone saw it or not.

“Oh how I’ve missed you, Noah.” Locke’s words almost came out warmly.

“And it’s sweet, really… the way you pretend this is about her,” he said with the faintest smile. “But you and I both know who you’re really trying to prove somethin’ to, little brother.”

As his words were meant for Noah, he didn’t look at Wren, not directly, but his fingers moved against the table, slow and steady, tapping out a rhythm no one else would notice unless they were looking deep. And maybe she was. He gave her nothing more than that, not even the satisfaction of a glance. Just a thread, left loose, but one to tell her that he knew she had been looking.

Then he turned his attention forward again, eyes never quite landing on Noah but looking through him instead, toward something only Locke could see. Toward her.

“Angel never did well in cages…” he said, quieter now, as though the words were meant for someone who wasn’t in the room. “Especially not the ones your father builds… Respectfully, of course.”

His smile changed. Not wistful or broken, just... just tired. Like a man remembering something real in a place full of liars. There was a stillness after that, leaving space to let the truth in his words breathe.

Then Locke leaned back a little further in the booth, let his arm stretch across the seat as he tipped his drink to the girl next to him once more. He took his time, watching the dancer sip from his glass without truly seeing her.

And then, as if the thought had only just arrived, he looked back at Noah, voice calm as ever.

“I’ll find her for you. I’ll even give you the family discount…But if she don’t wanna come back...”

He left it there just long enough to feel dangerous.

“...what then, brother?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: The Royal Banquet
Interactions: @princess Queen Alibeth, @Helo Leo, @Tae Torvi & Fenrys

Kilian had not moved.

Even as the Queen’s voice settled over the court, he remained exactly where he was...still, sharp, and completely in his element.

The chain in his hand hung loose now, its weight resting in coils along the floor. His grip hadn’t shifted, his expression hadn’t changed, but his absolute conviction radiated from him as though it was its own being entirely.

He looked toward Alibeth then. Not the king, nor the crowd…Just her.

His eyes met hers with no pretense of deference, only the steady, watchful certainty of a man who understood exactly what he had just delivered. Not just the drama of it all, but the impact that would continue to ripple through Sorian from now on. And for a moment, something like a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth...not wide enough to be vulgar, but enough to suggest he was enjoying himself. Enjoying this display.

He tugged at the chain, but only slightly. Just enough to draw it forward a few inches, just enough to let the links scrape the floor and remind everyone that the woman behind him was still there, still bound, still silent.

His voice came low, smooth, and unhurried.

“The Queen honors me with her words. But she is no less true for her compliments. This kingdom is wounded. Struck with the gravest of injuries and bleeding out day by day. That wound has been left to fester. It has become infected. You all have been made delirious by the sickness that pulses through the veins of this city like sepsis.”

Kilian let the faint trace of amusement curl around the edges of his expression like smoke. But it did not deter from the severity of his words. Slowly, he began to walk.

Not toward the dais, but through the center of the room…the chain clinking softly behind him with every step. The woman followed without a word, her white dress trailing behind her, her eyes lowered. Her bare feet barely made a sound, but the chain filled the silence for her.

His path ended at one of the long tables. His seat waited there...Torvi on one side, Fenrys sprawled at her feet like a sleeping god, and Lord Smithwood on the other.

He came to a stop, the chain pulling taut behind him. The woman obeyed without command, her posture straightening as she took her place behind his chair. Kilian didn’t look at her, not even once. Instead, he continued.

“This once great city has become afflicted by the corruption of Magicae. I have come here, along with my companions from the Vanguard, to cut that rot from the wound in this city and to cleanse it. We are here to heal the wounds of corruption left in the wake of the arcane. I will rescue you from the maw of abomination.”

He stood there for just a moment, letting the weight of the silence deepen between his words.

“The good people of this kingdom deserve peace. You deserve prosperity. The innocent deserve to be kept safe from the evils that lurk among you. We will find that evil and bring it to justice. Despite the dramatics… I am not here for spectacle. I am here for results. Together, alongside my brothers and sisters of the Vanguard, we will ensure that you are protected from the ultimate threat to our kind.”

Then, slowly, he lifted his hand… and let the chain fall from his grasp.

The clatter of iron against marble was loud enough to jolt the room. It rang out sharp and clear, shattering whatever composure some of the weaker nobles had managed to maintain.

Kilian lowered himself into the chair like it had been waiting for him. Like he belonged there more than anyone else in the room. The captive, Genevieve, stood still behind him, exactly as she was meant to

One gloved hand found the edge of his goblet. He didn’t drink. Just turned the cup once with his fingers, slow and absent, while the tension twisted tighter around the room.

Then, finally, he spoke again.

“Today begins the reckoning. You have my word… Now please, do carry on with the merriment.”

A very poignant smirk tugged at his lips.

“I’d hate to be the only one enjoying myself.”

And with that, he leaned back in his chair comfortably and took a sip of wine from the goblet. Turning his attention first to Lord Smithwood, Kilian offered the man acknowledgment in the form of a nod and raised his glass to him before turning his gaze to Torvi.

“It is so nice to see you again, þruma. And you…” He said, first referring to her by the nickname he gave her and then looking over to her loyal protecter, Fenrys. “…I see your mother has been feeding you like a king.”

✨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.”