Oso

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

The Stormrider groans beneath your feet. You feel it...deep in the bones of the ship, in the pulse of the air around you. A slow, sick roll of arcane energy seeping through every pipe and seam, as if the elemental bound within can sense what's coming. As if it resents it.

Your Captain addresses you all over the comms system. His voice, typically steady and clipped, now carries the taut edge of calculation pressed against desperation.

"This is Captain Cindralis. The situation is… less than ideal. Most systems are compromised, and the harsh truth is that there’s no riding this out, not this far from Breland."

There’s a pause...barely more than a heartbeat, but the silence hums louder than any engine. Then:

"I’m initiating emergency descent protocol. Closest survivable option is the Lhazaar Principalities. Not a choice I make lightly. But it’s that or drift until we burn out."

Even without seeing his face, you can hear the distaste in his tone. Lhazaar. Something in his voice suggests he knows exactly what kind of welcome you’re in for...and why it worries him so deeply. Those of you that recognize these islands by name understand his concern, given their reputation. Those that no nothing about any of this still pick up the unease loud and clear.

---

The message ends… and the waiting begins. A slow kind of panic sinks in, not with screaming or sprinting...but in the quiet shuffle of boots, the white-knuckled grips on railings, the murmured prayers to gods from all over the world.

You hear it in the mechanical locking of cabin doors. In the soft click of blades being sheathed with reverence. In the way even the crew stops pretending to have everything under control.

There’s time. Not much, but enough for it to hurt.

Maybe you find a seat and strap in. Maybe you pace. Maybe you don’t sit at all, because sitting means accepting what’s coming. Around you, the Stormrider shudders like a wounded beast. The once-harmonic drone of its elemental engine becomes a rasping cough. Sparks blink from the walls like dying stars.

You feel altitude drop.

And drop again.

---

Then the descent begins in earnest.

"All hands, brace for descent. The Stormrider is coming in hard...find a seat or a rail and hold tight. Medical attention will be standing by once we’re grounded. Stay clear of the cargo hold and let the crew do their job. This isn’t over yet."

Wind howls past the hull like a scream too long held back. Lightning flashes...not from stormclouds, but from inside the Stormrider, flaring against warding runes that shatter with each surge.

The vessel jerks violently left. You’re thrown against your seat, your harness, the nearest wall...wherever you are, wood and metal groaning around you, strained to breaking.

From the portholes or the deck itself, you see it: jagged islands below, framed by charcoal clouds and seething ocean.

The ship dives...hard...then banks up at the last second, the elemental core screeching in protest. A flash of flame bursts from the starboard engine as a support wing rips free and tumbles into the sea.

The Stormrider slams into the shore.

You hear a sound like a god being stabbed...a metal-on-stone shriek as hull scrapes cliffside. A chunk of railing vanishes into the void. The impact hammers through your ribs like a war drum.

And then eventually… stillness.

Ash and salt choke the air. The world tilts unevenly, as if gravity itself hasn’t made up its mind. The deck beneath you is scorched, scattered with debris. Fires flicker. Somewhere, water hisses against burning steel.

You cough, you move, you check yourself for wounds. Somehow, you’re alive, and not as worse for ware as you might have feared.

---

Captain Cindralis’s voice returns, hoarse but controlled.

"This is Cindralis. We made it. All passengers, report to the main deck. Watch your step...we’re in one piece, but only barely. We’ll assess the damage once we’re sure no one’s dying. Stormrider out."

You rise.

Smoke drifts from the ruined engine. Ahead, the jagged coastline of the Principalities waits… and somewhere beyond the haze, movement. Watching.

Waiting.

---

Welcome to Chapter One: Salt & Smoke

Welcome to Port Verge

✨Beyond The Veil✨

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: The Pink Room • Time: Nighttime

Interactions: Noah @helo, Wren @Tpartywithzombi • Mentions: Angel

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Locke didn’t move at first.

He just sat there in that velvet booth, his fingers still circling the rim of his glass with absent rhythm, letting the last words from across the table was over him.

Then, after a long pause, he pushed the glass toward the center of the table and stood without rush or flair, adjusting his vest with one smooth pull at the collar.

“Alright,” he said, voice soft but certain. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

He stepped back from the booth, but not before letting one last curl of amusement tug at the corner of his mouth.

“Though if I can’t call you brother anymore…” he added with a sideways glance, “then I suppose you don’t get the family discount after all. Tragic, really, because I’m expensive...even for royalty.”

The smirk faded, not into anger or sadness, but something more grounded. He tilted his head, just a touch, letting that faint Irish lilt roll in like a tide, low and weathered.

“But let’s not pretend, aye?” he said gently. “Blood is more than family, and you and I... we’re tied to something thicker than all that. You can hate it, deny it, bury it under all those daddy issues swirling inside of your chest, but it’s still there.”

He paused, letting the weight of it linger before finishing with a faint, almost fond smile.

“We’ll always be brothers, Noah. Whether you like it or not.”

Then, as if a different current took hold of him, Locke turned to the dancer still at his side. She had barely moved this whole time, eyes wide like someone who knew she was in a room full of danger. He leaned down without breaking eye contact, voice dipping to be velvety sweet.

“Sorry to disappoint you, love,” he murmured, brushing his lips to her cheek. “But I’ve got somewhere to be. Remember my face… we’ll make it up together another time.”

As he pulled back, he slid a wad of folded cash into her palm with discretion that almost made it feel like a secret.

Then he continued on. Locke didn’t look back, but he did say one last thing.

“And Noah…Give your father my regards.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Charlotte & Cassius

Part 2

Time:Evening
Location: Hallway, Castle

---

With everything going on, Cassius simply hadn’t expected this. Every ounce of the helter-skelter night was stripped away in an instant. His anger at Alexander for using unnatural powers to manipulate his mind? Gone. The family drama that played out for all at the banquet to see? Dissolved from his mind. The mysterious revelations at the beginning of the event when he ran into Milo St. Claire? Fuck him and whatever games he was playing. In this moment he didn’t care… No, he couldn’t care.

His hands hovered for a second, torn between questions he couldn’t voice and answers he wasn’t sure she would even have. What did this mean? What would it ruin if they were spotted like this, here of all places? He felt all of it crashing against the inside of his ribs.

But then, in one of those all too rare instances in his life… His mind went quiet…and the storms within subsided, replaced by the gift of her body pressing against his. There was nothing left to hold him back.

It was no longer just Charlotte kissing him. Cassius returned the gesture, matching every ounce of emotion. The kiss was hard, certain, and felt like it was the only goddamn thing in the world that made sense. One of his hands found the curve of her back, pulling her tighter against him, the other slid into her hair like it belonged there. Just as it had the night before.

There was nothing delicate in the way he kissed her back. It was the hunger of a starving soul. The complete and absolute surrender to her lips.

Charlotte’s hands slid to his shoulders, her very soul alight with the feeling of him returning her kiss. When he pulled her into him, a breath hitched in her throat, and she melted against him, as though she could sink into his skin and disappear. There was a silent vow in the way their bodies clung: a primal, burning need that refused even a whisper of space between them.

Her mind fell into stillness, all sense dissolving beneath the heat of his mouth on hers. The quiet sound of lips meeting echoed in the stillness like a secret only their hearts could hear.

For Cassius, it was as though he needed her more than air… and maybe he did, because when he finally pulled back, it was only to breathe. He took a deep, almost desperate inhale, chest rising against hers.

His lips trailed over to her ear as his heavy breaths came out slowly, and his voice was low with warmth but rough around the edges with need.
“I’ve never met anyone like you before, Charlotte. You wreck me…you know that?”

A shaky exhale slipped from her lips, and Charlotte’s flushed cheeks deepened in color. Her heart thudded against her ribs like it, too, was trying to answer him.

I wreck you.

The words echoed in her mind. He had said them so easily, so unguarded, and it terrified her. How could he look at her—really look—and still say something like that?

For a moment, she hated herself for wanting to believe him.

She searched his face like it held answers. Lottie didn’t know what she expected to find…Maybe pity, maybe doubt. But all she saw was a man without his armor. Her fingers trembled slightly as they slid from his collar, ghosting across the line of his jaw, a gentle trace as though she were committing the shape of him to memory. She tilted her head up and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek just beside his mouth.

Then, her voice came, thinned by emotion, and aching.

“You say I wreck you,” she murmured, her gaze holding his, “But you make me feel… quite the contrary. I begin to believe I may not be as ruined as I once thought.”

Her hand lifted, coming to rest lightly against his chest, where the wild thrum of his heartbeat betrayed them both.
“But if you’re not careful…” she added with the barest, broken smile, “…I might start to believe you.”

Charlotte’s final words lingered as they kissed… soft, dangerous, full of invitation.

Cassius didn’t speak; his body did that for him.

One hand slid up her spine, slow as molasses, until his fingers tangled in her hair once more… the other wrapped around the small of her back, pulling her against the full heat of him. His lips met hers with a building sense of desperation, a kiss that was no longer sweet, no longer gentle. It was full of nothing but heat, instinct, and the unrelenting desire built throughout the tension of the night. He kissed Charlotte as though the only way to convince her of his intentions was to make her feel it in her bones.

And gods, she would feel so…many…beautiful…things by the time he was finished.

“Cassius…” His name slipped from her lips.

The tension in her body coiled tighter as his hand traced the length of her spine, a shiver blooming in its wake. And then, like a wave pulled by the tide, she moved with him. Her fingers fisted in the fabric of his collar for a moment before they slid upward, threading into his hair like she was terrified he’d vanish if she let go.

She kissed him again, harder this time, as if her entire body was starving and only he could feed the ache.

She kissed him like he was something sacred.

Like she had waited lifetimes just to feel him breathe against her.

Her whole body leaned into him, every inch of her aching to close the distance. It wasn’t just passion. It was a surrender. A desperate confession of: “I need you.”

If this was ruin, she would choose it again and again with him.

Cassius barely breathed.

Her hands threaded through his hair, and it made his pulse spike, made something old and starved in him reach up to meet her.

His hand, still curved against her back, drifted downward… down past the swell of her hips… until the tips of his fingers found the hem of her dress. He slipped beneath it...carefully, deliberately...his palm skating along her thigh, slow and warm and reverent.

He didn’t rush.

He let her feel him… the gentle caress of his hand climbing up inch by inch… the heat building between them like lightning begging for a place to strike.

And gods help him… he hoped she wouldn’t stop him.

“Charlotte...please.”

It wasn’t a question, nor was it a demand. It was worship, and it was hunger.

Her name left his lips like a prayer, and it had been the most intimate sound she’d ever heard. Her body responded instinctively, and her eyes, still damp with tears, fluttered shut again as she leaned up into him. Her mouth moved against his with urgency, like the answer to a question she had never dared to ask.

And then his hand drifted further on her thigh. His palm warmed her skin as he climbed higher, inch by inch, dragging fire through her skin with every touch. Her lips parted against his. She gave a soft, trembling sound… Not of resistance, but of complete, overwhelming surrender.

And then—

Click.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Dominic Blackmoor

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Church • Time: Dusk

Mentions / Interactions: His Pack • @Infinite Cosmos@deegee@Potter@Amatiramisu@Theyra

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Dominic sat still for a moment after the words left his mouth, letting them hang in the air like smoke over a battlefield. Nobody moved until Lucian broke the silence, steady as ever, iron in his voice. The man spoke truth...and Dom didn’t interrupt him. He let Lucian finish, then met his brother's eye.

"You got your word, brother," he said low. "Stay after. You and Kess both. We got more to say."

Tessa broke next. Her voice cracked before it even carried, and then she crumbled. That sound...her sobbing...it cut deeper than anything. He walked to her slowly, boots heavy against the stone floor, and stopped just short of where she’d collapsed. He didn’t crouch down or reach for her. He just stood there, tall and solid, his shadow long across the floor beside her.

"I know, kiddo. I know." His voice came low, rough. "He thought the world of you, all of you…and we all know he would’ve loved those cookies." Finally, he reached down and put a hand on her shoulder. "Do him one last favor…Stand up, proud, and show him just how strong you really are. There’s always room for tears, but now more than ever we have to hold steady."

He let the words hang, then offered a nod. It wasn’t an order, nor a dismissal, just an anchor for her to find her way back to her feet. Then he turned, giving her space, but not distance.
He stayed there for another heartbeat or two, hand at her back, solid as oak, before gently helping her back into her seat.

Alicia stepped forward next, voice carrying weight, and Dom turned toward her with a slow nod. She laid it out clean, offered her help, didn’t ask for favors. Just gave.

He appreciated that.

“We already combed the Glassworks,” he said plainly, voice steady but kind. “Whoever did this… they left nothing behind. No scent trail, no prints, no magic. Nothing.”

He glanced briefly toward Kessler before continuing.

“Kess torched the scene after I left. Not the whole place, just enough to keep any would-be sleuths from sniffing where they don’t belong. What we found, what we saw, stays with us.”

Dom stepped a bit closer, letting Alicia see the weight behind his next words.

“But I do got something else for you. There’s been whispers down near Blood Market Row. Folks passing through claiming someone’s been asking the wrong questions about us…looking for pack movement, newblood names, even digging into who runs the Fang. Go check it out. Eyes open, ears sharp. If it smells wrong, bring it back to me.”

He turned toward William next, meeting his gaze directly.

“William, you ride with her. Watch her back. I want both of you coming home, and try not to stir up trouble. We need answers right now, not more problems. I trust you two to handle this.”

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.”