Oso

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Guardian
Location: Airship – Top Deck
Mentions: Phia @princess, Minerva @FunnyGuy, Menzai @samreaper, Captain Cindralis
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: 52 gold
Injuries:
☼ Left shoulder was injured in the battle and is still leaking fluid.

---

Bastion left the dragonborn with his grief and turned, following the noise, scanning the area for the ones he knew aboard this ship.

The magenta familiarity of Phia’s hair was what drew his gaze first. His eyes found others as well, in time, just as the captain began his spiel.

He found her with a bizarre woman, a shifter like Menzai…Perhaps they knew one another. Bastion did not announce himself, he simply made his way towards them, placing himself nearby.

Then the strangers came. His threat analysis was off the charts. Before he knew it, the Captain screamed...his leg snapped in front of them all. Bastion’s chest whirred, his hand ready to draw steel whenever necessary. He was injured still, many of them were…but he would not let these pirates harm anyone else.

The crystal beat in the middle of his painted sun. It seemed...alive. Bright. He felt it answer when he thought of the others. "Bear it." That was the word that formed in his processors. They bear it together now. He wondered if the others could feel it too…that subtle connection of them all beneath the surface.

Minerva raised Phia’s hand…A choice made without asking. She was volunteered to go with the pirates to meet their Prince. Bastion stepped forward without an ounce of hesitation.

“If she goes…” He said, his voice carrying louder than expected. “I go.”

He looked at Phia, letting his optics soften as his gaze settled on her. The wind pulled at him, salt and ash mixing on the air. Bastion stood resolute, quiet and solid, waiting to be told where to walk or for others to chime in, refuse, volunteer, or whatever would come next.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Day
Location: Sorian Park

---

The first day was hell.

The pain. The nightmares. The memories.

“You scoundrel! You liar!”

Lottie…

"You should have never abandoned me."

Kiki…

“...you’re exactly like him.”

His blood dripped from Charlotte’s fingertips.

"Perhaps your sister can feast on your traitorous blood."

His blood dripped from the dagger in Kiki’s hand.

Charlotte’s cries as he walked away.

Kiki’s laugh as she walked away.

The laugh morphed into Lottie’s. Not the sweet one he had grown to adore, no, this one was far more malicious. His blood ran cold.

Once. Twice. Three times the dagger plunged into him.

He looked up, expecting to see the masked face of his would be assailant from the night before.

But no.

It was HER face. That beautiful face…those melancholy blue eyes. That raven hair. Those lips that had kissed him so tenderly.

It was Charlotte.

She was covered in his blood, the dagger dripping gratuitously with his very lifeforce.

She was laughing.

She was celebrating his pain. His end. She loved it.

He had hoped…wondered…if she could have loved him.

---

Day two was better. Someone progressed his healing a bit. He didn’t know who. He had simply been too out of it to know who had come in and out of the makeshift hospital room they had turned his chambers into there in the Damien estate. But he knew enough…had experienced enough wounds like this to know that the healing was, for lack of a better word…unnatural.

Though they had not healed the wounds on his face. Perhaps they had been too preoccupied on the critical injuries to worry about simple scratches. Little did they know that those three marks were more painful to him than any stab wound could ever be.

Still, he hurt like hell. His guts felt as though they would spill out from him with every movement. But Calbert made sure he was up and walking every few hours. Calbert had been…kind. The way a father was meant to be. It was a strange look on him. Cassius didn’t know what to think about it all, but it meant something to him. Even if he wasn’t sure he wanted it to.

---

Day three was a different kind of hell. Cassius refused sleep, he refused the recesses of his mind; the dreams, the memories, the visions that came with it. He refused it all and he craved fresh air and hard liquor.

Calbert begged him not to leave, and Cassius meant it when he said he was sorry…but he simply couldn’t take it anymore. His father sent guards to tail him. Cassius evaded, not as easily as he usually could, but easily all the same.

The rest was a blur of alcohol induced oblivion.

---

Cassius Damien woke up in a bed full of other men and women. The room smelled of sex, sweat, and perfumes. He grabbed the wine next to the bed and had his first drink of the day. Cas could barely recall the events of the night prior but he could remember enough to know that he hadn’t partaken in the activities that they other men and women in his bed had indulged in. He recalled blaming it on the stabwounds…he recalled that those words had been a lie.

He took another drink.

After he washed and reapplied clean bandages that had been provided by the brothel’s proprietor, a beautiful woman in her 50’s named Leilianna, Cassius dressed. He very much overpaid his tab, then left as though he were in a hurry.

There was no destination in mind, he just needed the air and anything other than stillness.

Sorian park found itself graced with the presence of a, let’s be honest, worse-for-wear Cassius Damien. However, despite his slower than normal pace…every bit of that swagger remained in his steps. The charm in his muscle memory, however, did not find itself in his eyes. The three clawmark-like wounds across his face did not help his appearance, but rather it was the weight behind his eyes that truly deviated from his usual magnetism.

The weight became even heavier upon hearing a stranger's words from beyond the bend.

“From the very heart of Vermillion, Verimont's Darling—Lady Charlotte Vikena.”

His heart sank, not just into his chest but lower…so low that he felt the licks of flame from the very depths of hell itself. The cuts on his face began to sting. He turned to see her.

Cassius watched her emerge from the side of the stage. He took in the sun in her hair, her shyness, the elegance that came from years of nobility. The color in her cheeks reminded him of the timidness in her that morning at the lake. He...had seen so many sides to her now. The fire from their first meeting...Her kindness...Her levity...Her arousal...Her anger...Fear.

She curtsied, clasped her hands, and addressed the crowd in her gentle way. Beautiful couldn't do her justice.

“Good day to you all. It is an honor to stand here for such a cause, and in such lovely company.”

He fought himself to leave. He gave it everything he had, but alas, he found himself taking a seat at the back of the auction crowd. His eyes hadn’t left Lottie since they had found her.

She was covered in his blood. She was laughing.

She was celebrating his pain. His end. She loved it.

But that wasn’t true. She was right there on stage…those melancholy eyes looking so sweetly around the crowd like only she could. He begged those eyes not to find him.

Cassius felt afraid, more afraid than he ever had in warfare. He wanted to be invisible…he wanted to be safe. He wasn’t afraid of the ones who had left him for dead in the dirt only nights ago…no…he was afraid to be seen by her. But he could not for the life of him look away.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Dominic Blackmoor

Location: • The Undeground Time: • Night

Interactions: • Vex @Tpartywithzombi

The bass was a living thing in here, crawling through floorboards and ribcages, licking at nerves until everything felt too close and too bright. Dom shouldered through the crowd at the Underground, sunglasses pushed up into rain-wet hair, cut still weeping along his brow from the cage.

He saw it happen the second it started, the hand sliding where it had no business, the little glint of plastic kissing Vex’s back pocket...It was bullshit.

Vex spun and laid him out with a clean right that sang off the man'ssull. The crowd hitched, then swallowed the moment whole but Vein Theory's song never missed a beat.

Dom did not make a scene. He let the crowd swallow Vex again, then went after the man, catching him by the wrist before he could rabbit away, turned him with a hand at the belt, and walked him three quiet steps into the service gap between the bar and the hallway. One forearm eased across the collarbones, all that weight like a wall settling. His grip on the wrist tightened until something inside it began to splinter. Fingernails lengthened against the man’s skin just enough to break it, five small crescents that welled red and trickled down.

The man sucked air through his teeth, blood still coming from the punishment he received from Vex. Dom brought his mouth close enough to be heard over the music.

“You are going to listen…” he said sternly, “and you are going to learn.”

He rolled the wrist inward and down, slowly with the kind of pressure that taught lessons better than words ever could. Cartilage clicked, a metacarpal started to go with a soft pop that got lost under the bass. The man tried to twist free and found there was nowhere to go.

“You never touch her again.” Dom murmured, eyes on the room like he was watching weather roll in, “Plain and goddamn simple.”

He felt the panic arrive. He let it sit. His other hand found the rest of the baggies in the man’s pocket and palmed them clean, then he lifted the pinned arm a hair and gave the shoulder a small sharp turn that promised worse if the fool even thought about squealing. Bones did not snap…yet, but they wanted to, and that was enough.

“You are done here.” he said, easing the forearm off the man’s chest by an inch, “Walk. Pray I let you live to see the sunrise…’cuz I could still change my mind.”

He released the wrist last. The man’s knees thought about buckling from the pain of it all. Dom propped him with two fingers, turned him toward the door, and sent him into the crowd with the tiniest push. A couple of regulars saw the look and opened a lane. The Underground ate him, but Dom tracked his scent to the door. He was gone.

Dom came over to the bar. He took Vex’s lighter from her shaking fingers without asking, turned her hand in his, and cupped the flame out of the draft. The paper caught, the cherry bloomed, the tremor in her wrist settled under his thumb because he did not let it do otherwise. He looked at her knuckles, brushed a thumb once over the split skin, then set her hand back where it was.

He slid the baggies across to the bartender with a look that gave plenty of instructions. “Water, plate of fries, mozzarella sticks…anything bread and greasy.” he said calmly, “and no more drinks for her. Nothing but water.”

He let himself be a wall at her back, not touching her, just there. The bass rolled on. Neon burned her hair blue, then pink, then red.

“You’re being stupid again…” he said, eyes still on the crowd, “Do you think this shit’s cute?”

The water hit the bar and he nudged it to her fingers.

“Drink...” he told her...“Then eat. If you want air, tell me. If you want out, I will take you home. Your call, but you're staying where I can see you.”

A couple of men drifted by, caught his glance, and remembered they had someplace else to be. Dom did not look away from the room for a long beat, then he finally let his gaze slide back to her mouth, to the smear of blood on her knuckles, then to the light in her eyes.

He leaned an elbow on the bar and lowered his voice until it belonged only to her.

“And Vex...What the hell are you trying to prove with all of this?”

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Dominic Blackmoor

Time: • Evening then Night

Interactions: • Vex @Tpartywithzombi

The crowd pressed tight around the steel cage, every one of them howling for blood, the stink of sweat, smoke, and cheap whiskey thick in the air. The floor was sticky, the lights dim and swinging, and the pit smelled like iron and violence.

Dom leaned back against the fence, shirtless, wrists taped and dark with someone else’s blood. His own split eyebrow bled down the side of his face, jaw set, a hand-rolled cigarette burning low between his fingers. He dragged deep, slow, and let the smoke curl out of his nose.

Below him, the promoter was barking through the mic, voice cracking with excitement. A couple of women hauled the last poor bastard Dom had broken clean out of the cage. The man’s face was a mess of swelling, teeth scattered like dice across the floor, ribs caved where Dom had buried his elbow. He was alive, though he might’ve wished otherwise.

Somewhere in the city, Kess & Lucian were both digging for answers in their own ways. The whole pack was coping and hard at work. Dom was working too...working to get the devil out of him so he could be ready for whatever came next. This was mandatory.

He dropped the butt of the cigarette, crushed it under his boot, then whistled low for the waitress passing with the beer tub. She winked, slid one through the fence. He cracked it open against the steel and took a long pull, foam catching in his beard. Then he rolled his neck, shoulders popping, and turned as the next fighter stepped through the cage door.

The crowd roared louder.

A monster of a man, six and a half feet, tattoos climbing up a chest like a wall, nose already crooked from breaks that had never healed right. They called him “Brickhouse,” and for good reason. His fists looked like hammers, his grin was all hate and hunger.

The bell rang.

Dom didn’t raise his hands. He walked straight into him. The first punch snapped his head sideways, the second drove into his ribs, and the third split his lip. He let it happen, teeth bared, tasting the blood, needing the pain. The crowd lost its mind.

Then Dom spat red on the mat, and the switch flipped.

He fully came alive. A headbutt cracked Brickhouse’s nose wide open, cartilage bursting. Dom’s elbow smashed down across his cheek, splitting it open to the bone. He hooked the man’s arm, slammed a knee into his stomach until bile hit the floor, then dragged his head down and drove it into the steel so hard the whole cage rattled.

Brickhouse stumbled. Dom didn’t let him fall. He hammered fists into his jaw, one after another, until the man dropped. Then he grabbed a handful of his hair, dragged his head up, and whispered something low enough only the broken bastard would hear before slamming him down one last time.

There was a brief moment of awe and silence. Then the pit erupted, the roar so loud it rattled the lights above.

Dom stood there, chest heaving, blood dripping from his face, a wolf in his natural state. He looked out at the crowd for half a second, then turned his back on them all and going for another drink of his beer.

---

Later, in the dingy back room they called a locker room, Dom sat on the splintered bench, peeling tape off his wrists. A half full bottle of whiskey sat beside him. His knuckles were swollen, skin raw.

The door creaked open.

Boots scuffed against the floor, and around the corner came a tall, wiry man. Pale as bone, hair black and unkempt, a silver chain blindfold glittering faintly in the half-light. His jaw was sharp, lips set in a knowing smile.

Aeryn Vale; Frontman of Vein Theory.

He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, tilting his head as though he could see the room anyway.

"Hell of a show," Aeryn said, voice smooth, almost amused. "Good to remind this city why you’re king of the wolves."

Dom didn’t look up at first. Just kept unwinding the tape, shoulders rolling, calm as if he hadn’t just dismantled man after man in front of a hundred screaming degenerates. Finally, he glanced over, eyes golden and tired.

"That why you came here, Vale?" His voice was low, gravel rough. "To hand out compliments?"

Aeryn chuckled, pushing off the wall and strolling closer, every step sure despite the blindfold. He dropped down onto the bench beside Dom, grabbed the whiskey without asking, and took a long swig. Then he let the silence breathe, his smile faint.

"No," he said finally, setting the bottle between them. "I came to offer condolences. From me, from the band. Logan was one of the good ones." He paused as his smile twisted. "Well. If there are any good wolves."

Dom’s mouth twitched, just enough to show the hint of a smile.

"Fucker hated our music," Aeryn added, handing the bottle over to Dom. "But times like these call for release. And in case you haven’t heard big guy…Vein Theory’s back tonight at the Underground. Come on down. Drink’s on me. Iron Fangs don’t got to pay a dime tonight."

Dom took a pull from the bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m not the biggest fan of your music either, pretty boy." He said coyly.

"No need to answer." Aeryn stood, smoothing his coat. "Just think about it."

He left without another word, the door creaking shut behind him.

---

A couple hours later, Dom sat in his office at the Cracked Fang, a fresh bottle open on the desk. Logan’s ring sat there too, carrying the weight of the whole fucking world. Dom leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed on it, jaw tight. The anger sat heavy in his chest, quiet but burning. He’d hoped the fights would help get it out of him…It wasn’t enough.

The phone on the desk buzzed.

He picked it up, thumb swiping over the screen.

A picture from Vex. Middle finger in the air, grin wide, pupils sharp as pinheads. The background was obvious…the Underground, no mistaking it.

Dom’s mouth set in a hard line as his eyes focused on those pupils. She was using again.

He stared at the picture a beat longer than he should have, thumb brushing the edge of the phone as he contemplated how to respond. Then he set it down, exhaling slow and putting the phone in his pocket.

“Goddammit…” he muttered under his breath.

A moment later he grabbed the keys to his bike, pushing up out of the chair.

Looked like he was going to the show after all.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

The Strangers

The sound of his boots against scorched planks was casual, unhurried. The Stranger moved like he owned the ship, like the battered souls gathered before him were already his for the taking. He stopped near the front of the crowd, turning to sweep his gaze over the survivors. The grin on his lips didn’t touch his eyes.

“Let’s skip the guessing games, shall we? My name’s Captain Beckett.” He gestured behind him with an easy flick of the hand. “That lovely mountain of a man there is Gnarly. Need I say more about him? And this vision right here is Rory. Dangerous doesn’t even begin to cover her, though I imagine you’ll get a chance to learn that firsthand if you’re unlucky enough.”

Gnarly gave a sharp-toothed grin as he folded his massive arms, his presence alone commanding silence. Rory, in contrast, leaned on the railing as though she were bored, her jade green eyes scanning the crowd waiting for anyone to test her patience.

Beckett then spread his arms like a preacher at a pulpit.

“Here’s the truth of it. It doesn’t matter who you were, what banners you carried, what gods you prayed to, or where you thought this pretty little ship was taking you. That part of your story is over. You’re in Port Verge now. Which means you belong to Prince Ravic Dane until he decides what to do with you.”

Murmurs rippled through the survivors, some angry, some fearful. Beckett’s grin widened at the sound.

“So I suggest you make peace with it, because we’ve got eyes on you, guns on you, and worse things than that if you start making poor decisions. Lucky for you, the Prince has a taste for introductions. He’d like to meet a few of you fine folk, see what sort of prizes fate has crashed onto his shores.”

He tilted his head, voice dropping into something crueler.

“But not all of you. Some will stay right here, safe and sound with your devilishly handsome captain.”

Jovik Cindralis stepped forward, jaw clenched, and shook his head. “You’re not taking my passengers anywhere… I’ll go, I’ll meet your Prince”

“Uh-uh-uh.” Beckett raised a finger and clicked his tongue, eyes sparkling with mock reproach. “You know better, Captain. A Captain’s job is to stay with his ship. Die with it, if necessary.”

The pistol appeared in his hand so fast it was almost magic, the gleam of polished steel catching the light. He tapped the barrel against Cindralis’s temple in obvious threat.

“I’m sure you understand the message. But… they do say caution is a virtue for a reason.”

He snapped his fingers.

Gnarly stepped forward and made his move. His boot came down hard against Cindralis’s knee with a sickening crack. The Captain went down with a strangled cry, sweat breaking across his brow as he hit the planks.

Beckett crouched just enough to smirk at him.

“See? Just as I said. You’ll be staying here with your ship. And now you’re in no condition to travel.”

He straightened, holstering his pistol with a spin of the wrist, and turned back to the crowd.

“Now then.” His grin returned, pretty and entertained by his own antics. “The boss beckons. So…” He spread his arms wide, inviting the silence to stretch into dread. “Who wants to meet a real Pirate Prince, eh?”

✨Beyond The Veil✨

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Locke's place • Time: Night

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Locke didn’t flinch when she dragged him in. He simply let her.

For a heartbeat, he let her have the illusion of control, her kiss hitting sharp against his mouth, frantic and angry and desperate all at once. Then, he took over.
Slow, but not rough, his fingers curled at her jaw, steady, grounding her even as her pulse raced against his skin. He kissed her the way he always did when she broke first, drinking in her desperation. The heat between them thickened, breathing heavy enough to fog the windows.

And then...he pulled back.

Not far enough to give her space…but just enough to remind her she wasn’t in charge here. He was her favorite drug, and the chaos in him couldn’t help but make her body beg for more. He dragged the tip of his thumb across her bottom lip as he looked at her with eyes like hunger. His voice, when it came, was low...threaded with that Irish rasp that he knew did things to her she’d never admit.

“Thought you didn’t need me tonight.” He said teasing, his head lowering so his lips could press the faintest kiss against the sensitive skin of her neck.

Without breaking from the act, Locke flicked his fingers once, and Mercy bolted out the window, wings catching the rain as she vanished into the night. He kissed Sable’s neck again, this time with a little more desire...eager to see her next move.

Her chest heaved with both need and frustration at herself. Sable narrowed her eyes at him when he pulled back, knowing exactly what he was doing. The damn man knew her more than she would ever admit to anyone. He was something she craved, and she absolutely hated that he knew it.

The throbbing in her temples was all but forgotten the moment his lips hit her neck. A growl reverberated from her chest. ”I don’t need you. I hate you.”

Letting out a shaky breath, her eyes closed once more and she bit down hard onto her lip to not give him the pleasure of her sounds. She was not going to fall for this again. Damnit, she was stronger than this.

”You know I can make you stop.” A warning, yet one that held no real malice.

The grin that appeared on his face, now reaching territory that could be described as utterly arrogant, was one that he felt he had earned here. “Oh I know you could...You could open that door and walk away right now if you really, really wanted to...” He said, his breath hot against her neck. “Or, you could be a good girl and show me just how much you hate me...We both know how good that hate feels, don’t we, love?” His hand trailed up the distance of her leg as he kissed her neck again, letting her feel the desire coursing through his body.

Her eyes had momentarily darted over to the car door, her eyes on the handle. All it would take was to reach one hand out to pull it, and she would be outside. Sable extended the fingers of her right hand and moved her hand to the side. However, the praise that left his lips immediately made her body freeze. She couldn’t help the parting of her lips or her eyes starting to roll back in her head.

Damnit.

Bringing both hands up, she shoved them against his chest hard enough for the Fae to fall back against his own seat. She growled under her breath before bringing one knee up to her chest. It didn’t take much for Sable to push herself off of the passenger seat and climb into his lap. Straddling both thighs on either side of his legs, she looked down at his face and shook her head.

”This doesn’t mean anything.” She had said it every single time, and meant it. Yet the fact that he had saved her from dying shifted a foreign part of her that she wasn’t ready to face. The woman grabbed at the bottom of his shirt before crashing her lips once more against his in a fiery kiss.

Locke didn’t fight her when she shoved him back...nor did he resist when she climbed into his lap like she owned the very space between them. His hands slid to her thighs instinctively, and he couldn’t help but squeeze them as he pressed his body upwards against her.

Sable played her little game like always, but her mouth on his told the real story. He caught her lower lip between his teeth in the kiss, slow enough to make her shiver, then pulled back just far enough for her to see the grin curving his mouth.

“Oh no, of course not, love...It never does.”

His voice dropped low, laced with that Irish curl, and Locke’s lips found hers again, hotter...hungrier, as the car’s windows began to fog with the evidence of what neither of them could deny.

There was no more talking.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

@FunnyGuy Tobias is approved as far as I'm concerned

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

The deck still moaned beneath its own weight, wood groaning as it settled into a wounded hush. Cracked beams and twisted brass glinted in the soft haze of clearing smoke. The storm had passed...yet in its wake came silence, and the Captain stood in its center.

Captain Cindralis slowly pulled off his half-burned coat, revealing a bloodied sleeve and a stiffly held left arm. He did not flinch. His eyes swept the ruined bridge with a soldier’s precision as he assessed the scene.

He stepped over a fallen crewman and crouched beside another, laying two fingers to the neck. There was no pulse. He let out a frustrated sigh, then he stood tall again and began to give orders to the crew scurrying around him .

"You, help me with the navigator...he’s still breathing. You...get down to sickbay and tell them we’ve got wounded inbound. If they can’t walk, carry them. If they’re gone…" He didn’t finish that sentence. "Move."

More orders followed...quick, measured, resolute. He rallied those still on their feet, organizing small teams to comb the ship’s shattered guts. They would search every cabin, every corridor, every crawlspace for signs of life. Those able-bodied enough to move would assist with the wounded or be ushered to the main deck.

"We do not leave our dead uncounted. We do not leave our living alone."

The battered ship stirred once more, not with engines this time, but with motion...purposeful, mourning, human. Crew and passengers alike heeded the call, gathering as instructed, bringing stretchers or leaning on companions as they climbed from darkness into the light.

Time passed, slow and solemn. The Stormrider rested crooked against jagged stone, one wing clipped, its elemental ring inert and steaming. Salt hung thick in the air. The only sound for a while was work: boots thudding on planks, the low voice of someone whispering a prayer for the lost.

Eventually, those that could came together for a meeting.

The crowd that had gathered on the scorched and broken main deck parted slightly as the captain stepped forward, posture upright despite the fatigue clawing at his bones. His voice, when it came, was low but unwavering.

"I wish I were standing before you with better news."

He paused, letting the wind whistle through the torn rigging behind him.

"We’ve suffered loss today. Many good people...crew, civilians, and comrades...gave their lives in the battle above as well as the descent. I’ve walked the halls of this ship, and I’ve seen the cost. But I have also seen the reason we’re all still here."

His gaze swept across the crowd, lingering on those who had fought, those whose hands were still stained with soot and blood.

"It’s because of you. Because when chaos erupted, some of you stood tall. Some of you ran toward danger instead of away. You didn’t do it for coin or contract. You did it because it was right. And because of that… this wasn’t the massacre it could have been."

He paused, gathering his thoughts before speaking again..

"But survival has only bought us time."

He turned toward the cliffside and the pale sea beyond it, as if the land itself were listening.

"We’ve come down in the Lhazaar Principalities. For those unfamiliar, these waters aren’t ruled by kings, but by blades and sails. The men and women who call this coast home are pirates, mercenaries, and self-styled royalty. And while they’re not known for charity…"

He turned back, his tone sharp now, authoritative.

"They are not fools. They are not beasts. They care for gold, leverage, and image. And House Lyrandar has deep pockets. Our vessel may be damaged, but it still bears their crest...and that makes it an investment."

There were murmurs in the crowd, a few hopeful, others wary. The Captain raised a hand to settle them.

"I expect an envoy will arrive before long...curious who we are, what we carry, what we’re worth. When they do, I expect heads to be level and blades to remain sheathed. We cannot afford panic, and we gain nothing by looking like prey."

He stepped closer to the center of the gathering, no longer speaking like a captain, but like a man.

"This ship will fly again. That I swear to you. But it won’t be because of luck…it’ll be because every one of us does their part. There’s strength in unity, even out here."

A final breath. A grounding stillness. Then the order:

"Prepare yourselves. Rest if you can. Check your wounds, your weapons, your wits. The worst may yet be ahead...but so is our chance to face it together."

The seconds that followed the Captain’s speech lingered like fog on the deck. Then...faint at first...a slow clap echoed from the rear of the crowd.

One. Two. Three deliberate strikes of palm to palm.

A shimmer in the air bent the light like heat, and then...suddenly, impossibly...he was there.

The Stranger

The man who appeared wore his confidence proudly. Braided hair hung down one shoulder, tied tight and laced with copper rings. His shirt was half-laced, his coat tailored but well-worn, the deep green collar etched with curling embroidery that hinted at wealth...be it his or someone elses. The image of a jade-scaled dragon coiled across his sleeve in tattooed defiance, and a pair of ornate pistols hung low at his hips, swinging like fangs at rest.

He moved through the gathered crowd at ease, ducking between passengers and crew alike without so much as a glance or a care for their reaction, boots thudding softly on scorched planks. There was a serpentine grace to him, a looseness in the shoulders that only the truly calm, and often dangerous, possess.

When he spoke, his voice curled around every syllable, smooth and deliberate with a sultry, honeyed Brelish drawl.

“Now that,” he began, motioning lazily toward Captain Cindralis with two gloved fingers, “was a bloody stirring speech.”

He smiled, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Rousing, really. Tugged on me heartstrings in ways I didn’t know were still tender.” A mock sigh. “Talk of unity and strength and all that noble grit. Makes a man want to stand at attention...if you know what I mean.”

He paused just long enough for the innuendo to linger.

“The Captain’s right, of course. Thar be pirates in these islands.” He pitched his voice into a theatrical growl, mocking the old tales of sea dogs and rum. “Self-proclaimed royalty, blades-for-hire, and vicious little monsters hiding behind charming grins.”

He gestured to himself.

“Present company included.”

By now, some of the crowd had started to murmur, others backing away slightly. Still, the stranger walked unhindered, circling toward the front of the assembly.

“But there was one teensy, tiny, miniscule thing the hot white-haired hunk of a captain got wrong...”

His grin widened as he came to a stop beside Cindralis, close enough to draw steel if he were so inclined… but all he did was give a slight, overly formal bow.

“The envoys aren’t incoming.” He winked with utter joy. “They’re already bloody here.”

Just as he spoke the last words, two more figures appeared just like him out of thin air.

The Second Stranger

The Third Stranger

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Dominic Blackmoor

Location: • Church Time: • Night

Interactions: • His Trusted Two

Dom let the silence sit for a second longer, then the faintest flicker of a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head once, low, more to himself than them.

Lucian… Calm and diplomatic as always.

Kessler…Blunt and full of nothing but piss and vinegar.

Exactly like he knew them to be.

He pushed off the table, standing straighter now.

"There’ll be time enough for both of you to prove yourselves." His voice was steady, no softness in it. "But in the end…only one of you takes that seat. That’s the way it has to be."

He paused, then looked between them, weighing them…not as friends this time, not even as brothers. Just as the last two men left who could carry this weight.

"But tonight there’s work to be done. No use in wasting time going and forth on the matter here and now. It’ll come in time."

He turned, but stopped just long enough to add over his shoulder...

"And boys…a good place to start’d be bringing me the fuckers who did this."

Then he walked away.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Guardian
Location: Airship – Top Deck
Mentions: Phia @princess, Menzai @samreaper, Captain Cindralis
Injuries: Shoulder still leaking fluid

Bastion stayed by Phia and Menzai as long as he could. He made sure they breathed easy, that the shadows of the Necromancer’s magic left no sign of pain behind. He waited until he knew they would wake to see each other’s faces.

When that certainty settled in his core, he rose and brushed the hair from Phia’s face so that her vision would be clear once she woke. Then he moved…his steps carrying him away from the bar, through the scattered passengers and the battered deck. His sensors swept for signs of the wounded, searching for any small flicker of life that still needed guarding.

He moved through the wreckage full of calm, even as the ship groaned under the strain of what it had endured.

Eventually, Captain Cindralis’ voice cut through the air as the comms sparked to life. The announcement turned fear into chaos. Screams rose again, boots thudded across splintered planks, mothers clutched children, old sailors barked useless orders, and the elemental ring sputtered above like a dying star.

Through it all, Bastion kept moving.

A flash of scales caught his eye. Familiar lavender scales. He stopped.

Near the rail, a lone figure knelt. A dragonborn man, shoulders hunched so far forward it looked as though he might collapse in on himself. His claws rested limp on the deck, trembling. His eyes were wide, staring past what lay before him, seeing nothing at all.

And in his arms, the young Dragonborn girl who had greeted him earlier. Kaelira was her name. He remembered…she had gifted him a small paper airship. She was so sweet, her father…not so much.

She lied there, small and still, her blood staining the wood of the ground beneath her. The girl had been slain. Something like sadness whirred in Bastion’s core, somewhere deep.

He felt the air shift, the pitch of the ship’s engine rattling like a broken drum. The deck lurched beneath his feet. Somewhere, someone screamed again.

But Kaelira’s father did not move. The man did not brace…he didn’t even blink. The world around him could have burned to ash and he would have stayed exactly where he was, lost inside the silence that comes when everything worth loving is torn away.

Bastion’s optics flickered. His mind processed countless outcomes in a blink. None of them ended well for the man clutching his daughter’s body.

So Bastion did what he was made to do.

He ran to him, boots pounding the deck as the ship tilted, wind howling through the torn sails. Bastion reached the man, dropped to his knees, and without a word, folded his massive body over him and the child’s lifeless form.

The ship bucked hard. Bastion slammed one fist into the deck, driving metal through timber until it caught deep in the frame beneath. His other hand clutched the father’s back, locking him in place as the wind roared past. He pressed his plating down, a wall of ivory and sheer resolve surrounding his wards. No blast of debris would touch them. Nothing would happen to them…Both the father, and the corpse of his fallen daughter would be protected.

Around him, passengers screamed and braced. The sky outside twisted with rushing clouds as the Stormrider began its rocky descent.

Yet Bastion stayed rooted. He would not be moved.

He did not fear the drop, nor the impact, nor the ruin waiting below. His mind carried only one thing.

If this man would not protect himself, then Bastion would do it for him.

His voice was a whisper, half swallowed by the thunder of the failing engine.

“Hold on,” he murmured to the dragonborn, not even sure if the man could hear him. “You will make it through this. I swear to you.”

And when the ship met the earth, he did not let go.

The Stormrider struck earth like a wounded leviathan, its bones shrieking through timber and iron. The world above became a roar of splintering beams and tearing sails, a wild churn of wind and grit.

Bastion’s fist held fast, buried deep in the cracked planks, his other arm braced across the dragonborn’s back like a living bulwark. The impact jarred him through every plate and joint, rattling his core until sparks danced behind his optics.

But the father did not move. He did not brace. He stayed folded around Kaelira’s lifeless shape, sheltered beneath Bastion.

When the final groan of the ship settled into a silence broken only by distant shouts and the hiss of steam, Bastion released his hold on the timber and slowly lifted himself, plating creaking with the strain.

He looked down. The dragonborn’s shoulders trembled. For a heartbeat Bastion thought he might collapse completely. Instead, the man turned his head...not up at Bastion, but toward the body of his child. His claws dragged through the girl’s lavender scales, small fingers gone cold beneath them.

And then the father’s eyes rose, red-rimmed and full of ruin. They met Bastion’s with a fury that came from somewhere deeper than rage...the hollow fury of a man who had been forced to live when he wanted to follow his child into the dark.

His voice came out raw, a whisper torn ragged by grief.

“How dare you…” He sucked in a shuddering breath, his fangs bared just slightly as if that could hold back the flood. “I was to be reunited with my Kaelira…Do you understand what you have done!? There was a pause. Bastion’s head tilted in confusion. Could it be true that the man hadn’t wished to be saved? If so, why would one pursue such a fate? “All your kind is good for is killing. But you bloody fool…why…why didn’t you just let me die?”

Bastion only stood there for a moment, still blocking the wind with his broad frame, watching the man as he clutched the tiny body closer.

For a moment Bastion almost spoke...to explain, to apologize, to promise something he couldn’t give. But instead, he only lowered his head.

“I only meant to help.”

He didn’t reach out. Didn’t offer comfort the man would not accept. He simply stayed...a silent guard as the dragonborn father bowed his head, shoulders hunched protectively over the little girl Bastion could not save.