Oso

✨Beyond The Veil✨

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Location:The Underground Blood Bank
Time:Night
Interactions:Angel @princess & Sean @FunnyGuy

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The first sensation was the cold. It was a deep, unfeeling chill that leached the heat from skin and bone, smelling sharply of copper, bleach, and a chemical cocktail that burned the senses. This was not the stagnant, damp cold of a fish market basement; this was the calculated chill of a large, industrial freezer, repurposed as a slaughterhouse.

The room was vast, dominated by concrete support pillars and segmented by tall, overlapping metal cages. A harsh, fluorescent white light...unfiltered and unflattering...cast the scene in a brutal clarity, removing all shadow and subtlety.

A low, mechanical hum vibrated through the floor, a constant, sickening counterpoint to the more human sounds like the rhythmic dripping of fluids, the soft, desperate weeping of the victims, and the grating, unconcerned voices of the operators.

The cages lining the walls were not all occupied, but those that were contained Fae of all shapes and sizes. Most alive, some barely…some not at all.

In the corner, two small forms...Fae children, no older than six...cowered together, their high, broken sobs were only muffled by their fear. One of them held a stuffed elephant that was stained with blood. He held the plush against his chest as though it could bring him comfort, as though it could save him from what was planned for him and his sister. It could not.

Elsewhere, Fae men and women...eyes dull with hopelessness or blazing with futile rage...clutched the bars, their ethereal beauty marred by exhaustion, cuts, and bruises. One such man tried to scream his rage, but nought a sound came from his mouth. The fresh scar across his throat was the cause, as his vocal cords had been cut from him by a doctor who was glad to shut him up.

The center of the room was the primary operation. Several gurneys, wheeled and metallic, held unconscious Fae subjects and worse. They were positioned precisely, their skin pale against the sterile white pads. Needles, impossibly thick and connected to long plastic tubing, plunged deep into veins and arteries, drawing their blood…their life-force...or perhaps, simply the essence of the Glamour itself, into plastic bags racked beside them. It was a blood bank set up for harvesting, but not through donation. This abomination was operated by figures in surgical scrubs and clear plastic face shields. The bright lights and sterile environment did not ease the horror of it all, it escalated it.

But even worse, the far wall was a workshop of biological obscenity. On large, stainless steel tables, the bodies of Fae subjects lay in various stages of dissection and preservation.

One body was splayed and pinned to a corkboard-like surface. Its skin, once vibrant, was stretched taut, and the organs had been removed, tagged, and laid out beside it. Another, partially flayed, had sections of skin and muscle pinned back with surgical instruments to expose layers beneath...a horrific, three-dimensional biological diagram. The woman’s eyes still darted around the room despite her body being torn open by the monsters operating around her. Silent tears fell from her eyes as she laid in unimaginable pain.

Chained to one of the central support pillars was Sean Stone, his athletic body was wrapped gratuitously in the metal links, his arms behind his back, keeping him in a standing position despite his unconscious state. His mask was hanging from its own chain, dangling a couple feet from his face so that it would be the first thing the man would see upon waking.

Suspended mid-air nearby, between the harsh fluorescent glare and the cages, hung Sicily.

She was the centerpiece of their precautions, secured with punishing precision. Five heavy chains held her taut…because with vampires you can never be too safe.

Two chains pulled her arms high to the ceiling.Two more chains pulled her legs wide and low toward the floor. The fifth chain, the most critical, was a heavy collar locked around her neck. The metal of the collar was different than the others, a dull silver, visibly engraved with archaic Fae runes that glowed with a faint, strange magic.

Near the entrance, the armored figures who had captured them stood guard, their movements now relaxed. They spoke in low, contemptuous tones, casually overlooking the horror show around them as they waited for their prisoners to stir. This place was like home to these sick bastards.

One of the gas-masked captors...whose voice had been smug in the basement...gestured sharply toward the pinned Angel.

"I still say we should have snapped the bitch's neck."

A scientist nearby, hunched over a bloody gurney, glanced up, wiping his glasses. "The constraints are necessary, and you know why. However, she is not the priority. It's the Warden. The Benefactor gave clear instructions, and your job isn’t to bitch…it’s to follow orders."

Another of the armored men scoffed, but replied with a wicked laugh. "Fuckin’ Hollow. He's been an absolute cancer, man. That idiot cost us two shipments this month alone. The only reason he's breathing is because the Benefactor wants it that way. When she’s done with him, I call dibs on gutting him like a pig."

The scientist chuckled, a dry, academic sound. "Hollow's methods are fascinating. The man is equal parts precise and ruthless. He’s valuable data, boys. And besides, if the Benefactor wants to dissect the man, you don't argue." He adjusted the clamps on his table, his gaze distant. "They arrive soon. Make sure the subjects are awake and the staging is correct."

The first operator shifted his weight, his helmet catching the light. "What do you think she wants with the bitch?"

The doctor shrugged, turning back to his work. "Bait, perhaps. Or maybe just a demonstration of what happens when you fuck with the business."

The heavy, cold silence returned, broken only by the whimpering Fae and the quiet, persistent drip, drip, drip of blood being siphoned away. One of the brutes pulled something from his jacket pocket, cracked it down the middle, and approached Hollow holding it up to the Warden’s nose. Smelling salts, potent stuff. Enough to wake the man from his deep unconsciousness. He then did the same to the girl.

"Wake up cunts... Welcome to hell.

Reign of the Usurper

^{#CD7F32 ....|..... outfit ............... ............... Campsite along the King's Fist}

The air tasted of pine and banked ash, but the fire at the clearing’s center was struggling, throwing more smoke than heat into the smothering night along the King’s Fist. A quarter moon, fat and indistinct through the valley's haze, cast just enough light to illuminate the faces of the two men knelt in the dirt, their hands bound tightly behind their backs with thick, tarred rope. They were thieves, common bandits, caught attempting to raid the armory and murder a sentry for what they thought was easy silver.

Standing between the two men was Rook, the Captain of the Bray Household Guard. Rook wore his signature black lacquered leather and iron, his helm tucked beneath his arm. The firelight polished the sweat on his temples, but his face was an expressionless mask of granite and exhaustion. He didn't shout; his voice was a low, steady current that carried a far greater threat than any yell could dare to dream.

"You came into this camp under the cover of peace. You killed one of my men… a boy of eighteen, fresh from the shipyards, dreaming of a glorious life," Rook recounted, his gaze sweeping over their faces, dwelling briefly on the terrified, bruised eye of the man on the left. "You did not just steal from us. You violated the promise of safe passage granted by the King. You placed the Lord of this House, the very last hope of a lineage that spans centuries…at risk. You endangered the future of Brineheart itself for a few pieces of steel and silver."

Rook stepped closer, and the thieves flinched from his sheer, menacing proximity.

"That failure is mine. I am the shield of House Bray, and you managed to slip past me. I take that personally." He placed a hand, heavy and gloved in studded leather, on the shoulder of the man on the right, pressing him down until the bandit’s face was mere inches from the dirt. The bandit gasped, the gag in his mouth muffling the sound. Rook’s voice remained even, colder than any winter. "The penalty for treason against a Great House, for murder, and for theft is simple and final in the Ninefold."

He straightened, withdrawing his hand. The thief remained bent, breathing hard, fearing the cold steel he expected to follow. Rook looked away, up toward the low, unseen ceiling of the forest canopy. "But you will not be answering to me, no… Tonight, you will answer to the Lord of House Bray himself."

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The air was no longer thick with ash but choked with salt spray and the noxious burn of pitch. Kaladan’s boots slammed onto the wet, splintered wood of the docks. Smoke rose in impossible black columns from the base of the mountain, obscuring the sky. The familiar geometry of Brineheart’s harbor was shattered. Bodies, burned and still, littered the jetties and floated listlessly in the blood-tinged waters of the shallows.

He didn't hesitate. Grief was a luxury he couldn't afford… So he ran.

He ran harder than he had ever run in his life, tearing down the main causeway toward his home. He saw it through the smoke, impossibly tall, piercing the dark sky: the Crystal Pinnacle, the giant spire of ancient, flawless salt that formed the heart of House Bray's fortress. It should have been a beacon of safety, but tonight, it was a tombstone.

He needed to reach it. He needed to find his father, mother, his brothers, his sister…to save them, to stop the collapse, to anchor the ship before the entire fleet sank beneath the waves. The thought was a raw, aching demand in his throat. He ran until his lungs burned and the roar of the fire drowned out the world, running toward the massive, collapsing doors of the fortress. But just as his hands met the iron of the doors, he was woken.

---

His mind burst awake with a violent surge of breath.

His heart slammed against his ribs, fast and erratic, like a captured drumbeat. Kal didn't sit up; he launched himself, springing upright from his simple cot in the travel tent, his hand instinctively snapping to the hunting knife that usually rested beneath his pillow.

"Easy, my Lord."

The sound of Rook’s voice, low and steady, pulled him back. He stopped, the knife halfway to his target, breath catching in a painful, heavy gasp. The tent smelled of packed dirt, dry canvas, and the sharp, reassuring scent of Rook’s oiled leather. He looked at the guardsman, taking in the clean lines of his familiar face, the cold efficiency in his eyes. Only then did the nightmare recede, dissolving like salt in fresh water.

Kaladan was soaked in sweat. The crimson silk shirt he slept in clung to his torso, outlining the lean strength beneath. He ran a hand across his beard, wiping the brine of his dream away. His eyes, the startling, pale blue of deep ocean water, were still wide with the echoes of fire.

"I'm sorry to wake you, my lord," Rook said, stepping back into the dim tent entrance. "But there's business."

A short while later, Kaladan stood before the two bound men, now fully dressed and armed. He wore a tunic of dark, heavy wool, leather breeches, and his house colors were relegated to the deep, almost black, navy blue of his heavy travel cloak, fastened with a silver knot. The clothing was impeccable though worn from travel, but the man inside was anything but refined.

He stopped a pace away from the nearest bandit, the firelight catching the faint stubble along his jaw and the intense, almost manic focus of his eyes. There was a dangerous vitality radiating off him, the aftershock of the nightmare having left him wired and razor-sharp.

He smiled…a wide, startlingly easy grin that pulled the corners of his mouth high. It was a handsome face, rugged and striking, and the smile felt genuine, even warm, but it did not reach his eyes, which remained cold, assessing, and utterly lethal.

Kaladan knelt, dropping to one knee in the dirt, bringing himself to the bandits’ level. This was wrong, too close, too intimate for a judgment, and Rook tensed slightly in the periphery.

"So," Kaladan began, his voice surprisingly soft, rich, and melodic, laced with the rough burr of the coastal North. It felt like a low, casual conversation between friends. "You thought you'd come into our camp, my camp, and try to take a few things. That’s understandable. You're hungry, I imagine. A man gets hungry, he does stupid things. We all do."

He reached out a hand, tracing the jawline of the nearest thief with a thumb, his touch oddly gentle. The thief’s eyes, wide with sheer, immobilized terror, stared back at him.

"But you killed a man who was only doing his duty," Kaladan mused, his hand dropping to rest on the man's throat, a warm, heavy weight against the frantic pulse there. "That’s messy. Rude. It forces me to be rude, and I would much rather not have to be so. I’m weary, tired from the road. I wanted rest, but now… now you’ve forced me to go to work."

He leaned in closer, his breath, smelling faintly of mint and wine, stirring the hair on the bandit’s forehead. This proximity, the casual, musing tone about death, was deeply unsettling to the bound men. "Now, Rook here wanted to be neat about it. A clean swing of the axe. But I’ve been thinking. Maybe we should make an example. Maybe we should hang you by the river, so every passing merchant remembers the toll paid by those who do us wrong." He tapped his thumb against the frantic pulse point of the man’s throat. "Or maybe we should go full Brineheart…stake you out at low tide and let the crabs have you. That sends a message, don’t you think?"

Kal drew back, rising to his feet slowly. His easy smile tightened into something that finally reached his eyes; a look of final, cold satisfaction.

"It’s death," he stated, the tone no longer warm, not even a hint of light left in his words. "And the simple truth is, when you deal in death you pay in death. You worked in cold blood when you killed that man, and I cannot allow this news to leave the camp alive."

He pulled a dagger from his belt. It was not the polished blade of a noble, but a working, utilitarian piece of steel. He tested the edge with his thumb, then looked at the gagged men.

"Any last words?" he asked, the question laced with dark humor, watching them strain against the cloth that sealed their mouths. "No? I didn't think so."

Kaladan knelt quickly, efficiently, and without ceremony. He plunged the dagger deep into the first man's chest, just beneath the sternum. The man gave a strangled, wet choke against the gag, his eyes rolling back. Kaladan did not look at the dying man. His gaze was fixed, unwavering, on the face of the second, living bandit, watching the stark, pure horror bloom in his eyes as life drained from his companion.

He let the body fall sideways, pulling his blade free with a wet shlick before shifting his attention to the surviving man. Kaladan wiped the dagger clean on the bandit's rough tunic, the blood staining the coarse fabric.

"You’re just another fool who made the error of fucking with House Bray," he said, his voice dropping back to that deceptively soft, intimate tone, only now it carried the weight of fresh justice. He stood over the bandit, looming large against the firelight. "Soon, there won't be a soul in the Ninefold who doesn't know the mistake that is."

Wrapping a hand into the man’s thick, braided hair… Kaladan slowly pushed the tip of his blade into the bandit’s eye. He sunk it deeper and deeper as the man struggled against his bindings, the muted cries of horror and immeasurable pain straining against the rag that gagged him. Lord Bray’s eyes closed as he issued his final judgement on the two criminals. He took in a long, deep breath that was filled with the frustration of man beyond tired.

With a slow turn to his man, and a gentle nod to Rook, the matter was concluded.

^{interactions ....|.... Rook............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|....none}

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

The Briarknight; Sir Ambrose Thrane (WIP)

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𝕊 𝕀 ℝ . 𝔸 𝕄 𝔹 ℝ 𝕆 𝕊 𝔼 . 𝕋 ℍ ℝ 𝔸 ℕ 𝔼

“The Briarknight”

“The Shield of Alixandre”

Age 29 · Male · Heterosexual · Knight-Protector of the Royal Children

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A P P E A R A N C E

Height: 6’6" Weight: ~225 lbs Eye Color: Bronze Hair Texture: Thick, unruly hair with a slight wave, falling in shaggu layers across his brow. Hair Color: Raven Black Skin Tone: He has a light, cool-toned complexion with fair skin that has a subtle olive/ashen undertone. Facial Details: Sharp, angular features; bronze-gold eyes; straight dark brows; faint under-eye shadows; close-cropped stubble; and a severe, cool-toned expression that rarely softens.

Distinguishing Features: ♞ Briar-thorn tattoo circling his throat ♞ Scars across his ribs and left shoulder ♞ The calloused hands of a swordsman ♞ Discerning, and often judgmental eyes Clothing & Armor: — Official Armor: Master-forged steel plate with briar motifs, bronze inlay — Mantle: Crimson-red fur — Off-duty: Dark gambeson, worn leather, hooded cloak — Weapon: A Master-forged Varian greatsword with a branching thorn-guard.

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P S Y C H O L O G Y

Willingness toward friends (1–5): 3 – loyal, but cautious Willingness toward romance (1–5): 3 – emotionally unavailable, but not closed off completely Sexuality: Omnisexual Main Ambition: To protect the Camilia children with his life & to honor his sister Hobbies: ♞ Horsemanship ♞ Sword / Armor maintenance ♞ Training ♞ Camping ♞ Cooking ♞ Rereading Sophia’s letters

Likes: ♞ Sable, his Varian Warhorse (and his closest friend) ♞ Light Snowfall ♞ The Varian Royal Family (Excluding Lucian) ♞ King Alixandre’s counsel ♞ Loyalty ♞ Silence ♞ Solitude ♞ Honey tea Dislikes: ♞ Lucian (complicated) ♞ Breaking promises ♞ His father ♞ Politics ♞ Pranks ♞ Recklessness

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P E R S O N A L I T Y

Ambrose Thrane is grumpy. There's just no way to sugar coat it. A fortress of discipline and quiet fury, Ambrose speaks bluntly, often harshly with bite softened only by exhaustion and the faintest traces of buried emotion. His presence can cold, withdrawn, and deeply controlled, yet behind the armor is someone who has never stopped grieving for his sister.

Duty is the spine of his identity, at least on paper. If Ambrose swears to protect someone, he will do so with unshakeable resolve, even if he resents them, even if it kills him. Nothing will stand between him and his oaths.

His relationship with Lucian is a tangled snarl of grief, bitterness, and obligation. Ambrose blames him for Sophia’s death...and blames himself twice as much for not being there. Despite that, he guards Lucian with suffocating vigilance. Duty does not bend, even under the weight of heartbreak.

Marina and Sylvia bring out the few remaining gentle parts of him. They exhaust him with their antics, but they remind him painfully of Sophia, and he is fiercely protective of both.

Ambrose embodies the ideal Varian knight: relentless, unwavering, shaped by the hard life of a commoner who earned their spot. Beneath the armor is a man who is still trying to atone for a loss he believes he could have prevented if only he were there, and who now shields the royal children with every battered piece of himself that remains.

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B A C K G R O U N D

Kingdom & Birthplace: Varian Kingdom / Breoven outskirts Current Occupation: Knight-Protector of the Royal Children Past Occupations: ♞ King’s Special Operations Soldier ♞ His father's apprentice Active Relatives: ♞ Sister: Sophia Thrane (deceased) - Lucian’s late wife ♞ Father: Arn Thrane (whereabouts unknown) - What a piece of shit he was to Sophia and Ambrose ♞ Mother: Sera Thrane (deceased; died birthing Sophia) - Ambrose only has a few memories of her. He wonders what life could have been if she had survived. Other Connections: King Alixandre - "The man that showed me there was a life away from father's tyranny. He raised me up, gave me an opportunity to be more than my blood would allow, and taught me how to be a man. I may not be his son, but he is like a father to me. His word is my command, now and forever." - Queen Rosa - "She has been as kind to me as she was to her own children. The perfect example of what a queen should be, unlike Caesonia's Danrose Disaster of a Queen. " - Prince Lucian - "Are you trying to get a rise out of me? He's my Prince, the heir to my Kingdom's throne... But that's all he'll ever be to me now." - Prince/Sir Askel - "Once just a cub with dreams of knighthood, I doubted the boy when my King first assigned him as my squire. I have no issues admitting that I was wrong. Askel is a good man, a good Prince, and will be an even better knight. Don't tell him, but I'm proud of him. We may not share blood, but this man is my brother." - Princess Marina - "I've not met a kinder, more infuriating woman. She refuses to comply, tries to slip away constantly, and I've spent countless evenings tracking her down. She is capable, more than perhaps she'll ever know... Definitely more than I'd ever admit to her face. Whatever soul decides to marry her better pray to all the gods in the realm. They'll need all the help they can get. With that said, there is nothing that I would not endure to keep her safe." - Princess Sylvia - "If Marnie is infuriating, Princess Sylvia is a knight's worst nightmare. She is a lightning storm of energy and antics that will surely be the death of me. There is a darkness in her that I have noticed, something that reminds me of myself at her age. Despite the madness she creates in me at times, Sylvia is as worthy as her sister of my protection. I will kill the gods themselves before I let anything happen to the girls." - Mina Blackwood - "WIP" - Roman Ravenwood - "WIP" Skills: ♞ Elite swordsmanship ♞ Defensive combat style ♞ Tracking & Wilderness Survival ♞ Horsemanship ♞ Warfare ♞ Emotional repression ♞ General Grumpy / Judgmental Cuntiness

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History Summary:
Ambrose & Sophia Thrane grew up under the iron rule of a brutal father, a man who blamed the death of his wife on their daughter, Sophia. Their childhood was a gauntlet of violence, shaping Ambrose into a soldier long before he held a title. It was King Alixandre who first saw the boy beneath the bruises and carved out a place for him in the palace guard. In many ways, the king became more of a father to Ambrose than his own ever was.

Ambrose excelled rapidly, rising into the king’s trusted special operations unit. But everything in his life revolved around his younger sister Sophia, the only gentle thing in his world. When Lucian Camilia asked for her hand, Ambrose sought a single promise: that Lucian would protect her as fiercely as he did.

Ambrose was gone on special assignment by the king when his sister was murdered. He returned to Sophia’s corpse and Lucian’s broken promise.

The grief hollowed him...but his rage was worse. It became problematic. He blamed Lucian for failing her, and himself more for being gone. Their relationship has never recovered. When he looks at the Prince he once thought of as his brother, all he sees is another man who failed Sophia.

When Alixandre accepted his request to be appointed as guard the royal children, Lucian included, Ambrose swore himself to the task despite his disdain for Lucian. Duty is duty, even when it cuts deep, and this new oath would be his way of honoring Sophia's memory.

Marina and Sylvia slowly became the last soft spots left in his heart, echoes of Sophia he will protect until his dying breath.

Now, as the Briarknight, a name he earned for his thorny and relentless presence on and off the battlefield, Ambrose stands as shield, sentinel, and penance to the Camilia siblings as they travel to Sorian.

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Questionnaire – WIP

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Interactions: Menzai @samreaper

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Marcellus raises an elegantly plucked brow at the second coin and lets his fingers dance it into a pouch with a flourish. He doesn’t drop the merchant persona, but his tone lowers just a touch...just enough to suggest this is the kind of gossip you pay for.

He tells Menzai that Port Verge is a place where reputation shines brighter than armor and coin smooths over the worst of offenses. “Everyone here is dangerous, darling...even the ones who smile too wide. Well…especially the ones who smile too wide.” He laughs a garish chuckle before continuing.

“As for Prince Ravic Dane,” Marcy practically coos when saying the name, describing him as a pirate in velvet, all sharp teeth and sweeter lies. “He’s no fool, and not prone to flattery unless it comes with leverage...but he loves a show. If you walk in quiet, he’ll overlook you. Walk bold, and you just might earn his attention... or his gun, if the gods are feeling humorous. But whatever you do, don’t bore him.”

Z-Team: Operatives of the SDN

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Time: 10 minutes before the meeting
Location: SDN; Dr. Bradley's Office

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The office smelled like mint tea and antiseptic wipes. Dr. Bradley always kept it that way. Calming, she called it. Apparently, it was “grounding”. Liam sat in the chair across from her desk, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, pretending the warmth of the room did something to ease his nervous stomach.

She was talking. He knew she was talking. Her voice always carried that soft, professional kindness, the sort of tone people used with frightened animals. She was nice, and…Liam felt that she may actually care, but still, all of this felt so formal. So impersonal.

"Liam, before you start with the Z-Team, I just want to check in. How are you feeling today?"

His fingers scraped at a scratch in the wooden edge of her desk. Someone must’ve dug their nails into it before him. He pressed his thumb into it, harder and harder as the seconds passed by.

“…How are you feeling today?” The words echoed and the first flash hit him.

Lorelai lying in his arms, head in his lap, eyes open but not seeing him anymore. He remembered how light she felt, how wrong that was. She had always been warm. Always. Fucking always.

"Liam?" Dr. Bradley tilted her head, trying to meet his eyes. "Can you describe your mood for me? Are you anxious, or more hopeful?"

His thumb kept rubbing that scratch. Deeper now.

“…hopeful?” The second flash swallowed him. His hands under a running faucet, shaking so badly he could barely hold them still. Her blood was pinking the water, swirling down a metal drain that wouldn’t stop gurgling. His reflection above it was blank…empty. His fingers were red for days. Getting all of her blood out from under his fingernails took what felt like an eternity.

"Are you getting enough sleep?" she asked gently. "These transitions can be overwhelming. It’s important you let us know how you’re coping."

“…coping.” He let out a breath he didn’t even realize he’d been holding.

Another flash slammed through him.
Standing alone at her grave after everyone else had left. The flowers were too bright. The mound of dirt between him and her casket felt impossible. He remembered the way his knees almost buckled when the wind moved across the stone. He waited for something…. Anything. A sign, a word, a feeling other than emptiness. Just anything. It never came that day.

"Liam?" Dr. Bradley’s voice softened. "You seem distracted. Are you with me?"

He blinked, forced his hands still. Pulled them into his lap so she wouldn’t see the tremor.
"Sorry. Yeah. I’m here."

"Is everything alright?"

He could tell her the truth. The truth that he felt like he was walking into this new job with half a soul. That his chest still tightened whenever he saw the initials L.B. together on forms because he didn’t know which one of them it meant anymore. He could tell her that he had planned to take his own life last night, but couldn’t because he knew Lorelia would have hated him for it. Or, maybe that’s just what he told himself to cover up that he was too much of a coward to pull the trigger. He could even tell her that he had started seeing his twin sister at times, despite her being dead. He knew they were hallucinations, knew that he was probably going mad, but he pretended it was real. He pretended just so, for a fucking moment, he could be next to her again.
But he didn’t.

Instead, he looked up, white-blue eyes tired but steady.
"I’m just nervous," he said quietly. "And… excited. I mean… it’s a chance. It’s something new. I’m grateful."

Dr. Bradley blinked. It wasn’t the answer she expected.
"Excited?" she repeated, and for a moment he could tell she wasn’t sure if she believed him. "Well. That’s good to hear. I’m glad you’re feeling hopeful."

He nodded, but didn’t say more on the matter.

She rose from her chair and offered him a small, warm smile.
"You’re meeting the others today. First impressions matter, Liam. Try to stay open. And… good luck. Truly."

"Yeah. Thank you."

He stood, tugged at the hem of his shirt, and walked out of the office into the quiet hallway. The door clicked shut behind him, soft but final.

The path to the conference room felt longer than it should have. With each step, his pulse climbed. By the time he reached the frosted glass door, he could hear voices on the other side.

Liam reached for the doorknob.
He paused there, his hand hovering an inch away for what felt like forever.
For a moment he almost turned around… almost walked straight back out of the building.

He looked back behind him, and there she was. His sister, or her ghost at least. She was motioning for him to go inside. In that moment, he hated her. He hated SDN for taking him from her. But mostly, he just hated himself for surviving it all.

Liam curled his fingers around the metal, took a breath that didn’t steady him as much as he hoped it would, and walked inside to meet the others.

Roses and Daggers - Looking for new players!

I lied! She messaged you like right after I sent this lol

Roses and Daggers - Looking for new players!

@Silver Carrot Heck yeah! We're glad to have you 😊, and Princess will reach out (probably tomorrow) to help get you set up 🙌

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: Kilian’s Chambers followed by The Dungeons

Kilian’s chambers were quiet at this hour, as setting sun pushed through the narrow window and cut a pale line across the floorboards. The rest of the room was lit low in amber light as the beams stretched and reached as far into the chamber as possible. The soft glow brushed over bare skin and ink-black lines in the middle of it all.

Kilian sat before the mirror with his shirt hanging over the back of the chair. The scars across his back caught the light whenever he shifted. Dozens of tally marks, each one carved in by hand. The markings were not for decoration, instead this was a record of his glory. Each tally was a chapter in the story that his life as a witch hunter had told.

The device he held was small but weighty. Crafted from bone and steel, wrapped in black leather and crowned with a reservoir of shimmering void-ash ink. It hummed faintly as he turned the needle’s tip in his fingers and pressed it to the side of his abdomen where an unfinished sigil waited for completion. The first touch sank in with a sting that bloomed heat across his ribs.

He inhaled slowly.

Tattooing with void-ash ink was not like working with common pigment. It crawled beneath the skin with intention… burning, threading itself through muscle and blood with the unsettling sound of its arcane remnants searing itself into flesh.

He worked with the same precision he used in his hunts. The needle traced curves and angles in steady, relentless lines. Shadows slid beneath the ink as it sank deeper, merging with his body in a way ordinary markings never could. Where the void-ash settled, faint light answered from within. A glow that wasn’t glow at all…but more like something pulling the light itself inward. He did not flinch, and barely breathed as he worked. Sweat collected at his temples, rolling down the angle of his jaw, catching on his collarbone. The man’s body moved with a singular focus, dense muscle flexing beneath pale skin… A living testament to discipline and punishment all in one frame.

When the final stroke was done, he held still and allowed the ink to bind to him. The burning subsided into a slow, cold throb as Kilian wiped the ink from the surface of his skin with a cloth. The finished sigil was brutal, unsettling, but undeniably beautiful.

Only then did he rise from his seat to admire his work in the mirror. Before long, he grabbed his shirt from the back of the chair and moved on.

He dressed in silence. It was not his armor that he donned, but rather nicer clothing. Still dark, and practical, but fit for a man of his status who was about to mingle with royalty. The high collar of his Vanguard Society coat settled around his body as he fastened the belts and buckles across his chest. The whole while, he felt the new tattoo pull in a satisfying way, syncing with every breath he drew. There was pain, but not in a way he could not enjoy.

It was time.

---

The dungeons greeted him with their usual rancid chill. Moist stone, rust, old and soiled straw. And beneath it all, the heavy scent of misery.

Kilian stepped through the iron-barred halls, boots striking the floor with calm authority. The guard at the far end jerked to attention. Inside the cell, the girl stood where he had left her; chain still around her waist. She didn’t move. Her gaze, fixed on the stone wall opposite, remained unbroken, a silent, stubborn counterpoint to his presence. Only the rise and fall of her chest betrayed that she wasn’t as motionless as the stone surrounding her.

Kilian set down a canvas bag upon the stool beside the bars. His voice came smooth and unhurried.

"We have an appointment."

She said nothing in response to his words, and didn’t dare move a muscle.

Kilian reached into the bag and pulled out a folded dress. It was formal, and clean. The fabric was deep blue satin that caught what little torchlight the dungeon offered. After that, he drew out a small, wrapped bar of soap.

"We will be making an impression this evening when we arrive. Your current condition will not do. You will wash, and dress. You have one hour."

He set both items on the stone within her reach. His gloved hand lingered a moment on the bars, tapping once in quiet warning.

"I will return for you myself." He explained, an amused smile sitting on his always rather intense face. His smiles rarely felt kind, after all.

As he made his way back to the exit, he stopped to speak with the warden.

"She requires warm water.” Kilian commanded simply.

The dungeon warden scoffed at the thought.

"Warm water for a witch? I didn’t take you for a softy, Mr. Hale."

Kilian stopped his stride. He looked back over his shoulder first, then moved in close enough that the warden had nowhere left to inhale comfortably. The mood of the room shifted entirely.

"This has nothing to do with convenience."

His voice dropped lower.

"When you are meeting with a Prince, you arrive presentable. She will be clean. She will be dressed… And if you prevent her from doing so..."

He leaned closer. The lamplight catching along the edge of those cold, green eyes.

"I will hold you personally responsible."

The warden swallowed hard.

"Y... yes sir."

Kilian straightened.

"Do not question me again."

His coat shifted behind him as he walked away, the girl’s chains rattling faintly with his absence.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Dominic Blackmoor

Time: • Night

Interactions: • Vex @Tpartywithzombi • Kessler @deegee

Chaos.

It erupted around them all as the gas took its effect. Dominic could smell the frenzy even before the vamps attacked. This was bad… Real fucking bad. His eyes turned to the stage as he pulled Vex closer. That’s when Aeryn fell.

Dom watched his old friend stagger, silver chain blindfold sliding off one eye as it ignited blood-red. He saw the tremor run through Aeryn’s hands, saw him choke on the air around him. He was fighting the frenzy that was trying to take hold of him, but it was futile. Just like the others, Aeryn succumbed to the monster that was being pulled forth. He became a mindless, desperately violent attacker.

Dom’s jaw locked so hard something inside popped, but he didn’t move towards his old friend. He couldn’t… At least not yet.

His immediate priority was Vex. He shifted her behind him with the hand that was around her waist. He wasn’t sure what she would be able to do in her state, but he knew without a doubt that he’d protect her… That he would protect his pack, regardless of what he had to do.

The first vampire hit him without warning. A blur of nails and teeth and frenzy. Dom didn’t step back or flinch. He caught the creature by the throat mid-lunge and slammed them down so hard the concrete cracked beneath the impact. The vamp writhed, snapping at his face, until Dom’s hand pushed down with enough force to cave the spine at the base of the skull. The body twitched once and went still.

Three more came at him.

He shoved Vex aside in one clean motion, just far enough to keep her out of the reach of their would-be assailants. One vampire tried to latch onto his shoulder. Another tore at the back of his shirt. The third sank claws into his abdomen.

Dom saw white.

He grabbed the closest one by the back of the head and swung it like a hammer. Bone snapped on impact. The creature bounced off a pillar and slid down leaving a smear of blood. The second he crushed against the marble counter. The entire slab gave under the force, cracking down the center like it had been struck by a wrecking ball. Marble dust billowed as Dom ripped the last vampire off his torso with both hands, fingers sinking into the creature’s face as he lifted it and threw it across the bar. It hit a row of liquor shelves, causing glass and alcohol to explode like rainfall.

That was when he smelled Tessa’s blood.

He focused, honing in on her location. The Coldfang boy was there too… he could tell by Luter’s scent that he was injured as well, but clearly, he was protecting her.

Dom, utilizing not just scent but his enhanced hearing as well, searched the room for Kessler. The man’s scent cut through the massacre. Dom found him perched above the bar. He was a mountain of fur and rage, ready to do the things that Kessler did better than anyone. Dominic met his eyes intensely and yelled to him over the cries, growls, and thunderous chaos around them.

“Tessa…get to her. Keep her safe!”

He pushed the worry for Tessa down best he could. Dom understood that if anyone could slaughter their way to her and get her out of this trouble… It’s Kess.

With his attention elsewhere, another vamp lunged forward at him. Dominic turned just in time to intercept the feral creature, but he was a fraction of a second too slow to stop the splintered, jagged end of a chair leg from being driven deep into his right leg. Pain flared as the wood pierced his flesh, but he did not show it. Instead, he raged.

The crack that followed was wet and brutal as the vamp’s skull was slammed against the concrete floor over, and over, and over until his end was final. As he stood, Dom exhaled a sound that wasn’t quite human anymore. He was shifting.

His spine buckled first.

A sharp, cartilage-splitting snap echoed under his skin as vertebrae twisted out of alignment. Muscles bunched, tore, and reknit themselves around the moving bones. His shoulders jerked back so violently it looked like someone had hooked chains into him and pulled hard.

The veins along his throat bulged as his skin visibly crawled. His jaw hitched sideways with a sound like cracking wet walnut shells. Teeth lengthened one by one, each pushing through gum tissue with grotesque pops. His canines grew fastest, forcing his lips to split at the corners. Blood smeared across his teeth as they reshaped into killing tools.

Fingers stretched, then split… Then fused again as bone pushed outward.

Claws tore through the skin at their tips, dragging strips of flesh with them like unraveling thread. His nails fell off in soft, bloody clinks before blackened talons erupted in their place.

Dom exhaled once and the sound was even less human.
It vibrated low in his ribs like metal dragged over stone. The change rolled down his back and under the skin as he continued to take his true form. Tendons stretched until they snapped like overstressed rope, and new ones formed. Thicker ones. His ribcage expanded, cartilage tearing open space for a deeper set of lungs. His heartbeat slammed against his chest as the heart itself suddenly began beating too big for a human body.

His skin mottled, rippling in waves as the coat underneath pushed forward. Coarse fur burst through pores in a spray of blood. It crawled across him until his entire frame was covered, dark and uneven.

His legs distorted next; knees bending the wrong way, ankles popping out of place, and feet splitting as new bones erupted through the old shape. The wooden spike of the chair leg he had been pierced with slid and slipped from the wound as muscle and flesh sewed itself back together, and he dropped forward on all fours for a moment, claws gouging into marble as easily as pressing fingers into wet clay.

Dom lifted his head and the last pieces of humanity shuttered behind his eyes. What looked back at the room was a wolf in the body of a man, jaws dripping, fur matted with blood, muscles quivering under the strain of too much power compressed into too little space. This was the true Alpha of the Iron Fangs on display.

The beast that Dominic had become placed itself between Vex and everything else, and with as gentle a hand as he could manage, he moved her behind him and pulled her close.

He answered the howls of others in his pack with one of his own; the sound reverberating around his space. Blood was spilled all around the club, with vamps feasting on prey in all corners of the place. Dom would save who he could, but his priority was his pack… And he would butcher anyone who dared get in his way on the path to them.

Mercs in a Fantasy Setting

Very interested in this concept. Especially if it stays in the ES world. Honestly, I've been wanting something like this for a very long time so I have to at least throw my hat in lol.