Oso

Pines Holler - A Small Town SoL Sandbox RP [NOT Accepting]

I’m interested!

@princess

Oh hell yeah! My interest was already high but this only makes it better!

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

TIME: Evening
LOCATION: The Gossamer

The Gossamer was lit like a jeweled lantern this evening, warm and golden with the chatter of nobles and the soft clink of fine crystal filling the air. None of them noticed the closed-off section in the back, cordoned by velvet rope and guarded by two nervous servers.

They noticed, however, the man was already sitting there.

Kilian occupied the corner table as though he were a king. The girl, his little witchy pet, stood behind him to the right, chain secured at her waist, hands folded, body still, blindfold tied neatly over her eyes. The new dress fit her well, and her hair was clean but still damp.

The waiter nearby looked like he might faint.

On the table before Kilian sat a platter of delicate pastries. He picked up a croissant, considered it for only a beat, then lifted it up toward the girl’s lips.

"Open."

She obeyed.

He placed the bite gently against her mouth, cold and detached, as if he were feeding a barn animal he didn’t particularly care for but needed to keep its strength.

The waiter trembled as he tried to look away.

Kilian set the pastry down and folded his hands atop the table. Calm, controlled , unsettling despite barely doing a thing.

He waited patiently for his company to arrive.

"Ready yourself. Our guests will be here any minute now."

Lucian stepped through the threshold of the Gossamer looking all the regal prince that he was. His long red hair was tied back neatly in a low ponytail, something his sister had insisted on. The cool night air billowed his thick red coat lightly before the door was closed behind him. An older servant walked up to him, clearly not terribly fazed by his appearance.

”Good evening, Your Royal Highness Lucian Camilia.” The old man greeted him. Lucian lips curled into the semblance of a smile as he nodded his head in acknowledgement. Without much need for words, Lucian turned to begin taking his coat off and the servant stepped forward to take it.

”I believe I have an appointment.” He finally spoke, eyes turned to the male servant. His tone was not mean or callous, but left no room for disagreement.

”Of course, right this way, sir.”

His boots tapped lightly against the hard white floors of the restaurant. The chains of his pocket watch clanged lightly against his pants with each step. He certainly caught the glances and whispers that followed him, turning occasionally to offer a kind smile and a nod before continuing.

When in public like this, steps are always measured. He was taught from a young age that when presented as a Prince, he must always make pains to be aware of every little movement and action he takes and how it is viewed. It made him absolutely loathe places like this. Though, he couldn’t fault the man for thinking of Lucian’s station. A prince in a bar would be a sight to behold indeed.

Lucian followed the servant to the back, his eyes watching the man that slowly came into view. He’d met Kilian before during his apprenticeship, but still hadn’t gotten a full measure of the man yet. His eyes widened, however, when he noticed the woman next to him. She was in chains and blindfolded. Knowing Kilian, he could gather who, or rather what, she was.

”His Royal Highness, Prince Lucian has arrived.” The servant announced, glancing briefly at the two servers standing guard.

”Good evening, Kilian.” He spoke once he’d been announced. ”And.. Who might this be?” He asked, glancing over the woman with a gaze as cold as the winters in his kingdom. As pretty as she was, he knew that from her position next to Kilian she was a monster and he couldn’t help but to overlap her with the figure that had appeared behind his late wife. It took some doing to control the tension in his jaw.

Kilian stood as the Prince was announced, and offered a poised bow as Lucian addressed him.
“Welcome to Sorian, your Highness. You look well.” Kilian said, then turned, letting his gaze drift over his shoulder to the woman in chains behind him.

“And this…thing…is Agony. Named for the sole offering her kind brings to our world. Agony is what she sowed, so Agony is what she now reaps.” He paused with a smirk as his eyes turned back to the Prince, his hand motioning for Lucian to take his seat. The servant moved to pull the chair out from the table as to make room for the Prince. Kilian continued. “Feel free to get comfortable, your Highness. Our other guest shall arrive any moment.”

Lucian offered a nod in return to Kilian’s bow. He made a small mental note that even Kilian was capable of small talk and the thought brought the smallest of smirks to his lips.

He turned as Kilian introduced Agony, his admittedly faint smile immediately fading once more. His gaze lingered on the woman for a moment. In any other instance, he may have pitied her. Now, all he felt was a rage like a clenched fist in his chest.

With measured movements, Lucian sat down at the chair pulled out for him. ”Cabernet Sauvignon, if you have it. Earl Grey Tea, if you don’t.” He spoke to the servant, not bothering to look up at them. His gaze was fixated on the thing by Kilian’s side. The servant floundered for a moment, blinking rapidly before they pulled away to find something for him. ‘Was… was that on the menu?’ They thought frantically to themselves.

“Cabernet Sauvignon…” Kilian repeated with cold amusement. He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small, silver flask etched with tiny yet intricate designs. Something about the small container seemed more than meets the eye, as Kilian opened it, brought it to his lips, and took a nice long swig.
“Not much of a wine man, myself... So I brought my own libations," His words came out with satisfaction as the warmth of the dram spread throughout him. “However, I must say… Cabernet Sauvignon… If you’re going to drink wine, that’s the one.”

Kilian’s words tugged Lucian’s attention from the woman and his gaze shifted. He watched the man take out his own drink, one he had brought himself. It hadn’t surprised Lucian to know that the man carried his own on him, rather he certainly would have assumed as much just from the look of him. A man like that couldn’t fight the horrors he fought and not take to the drink on occasion.

”My mother’s drink of choice, so naturally I grew a taste for it.” He offered. ”Though, I’m not unfamiliar with other forms of libations.” He chuckled dryly.

The small talk about wine was swiftly and dramatically interrupted.

The velvet rope separating the corner was pushed aside and the two nervous servers guarding the section jumped as Fenrys, an enormous, silvery-grey dire wolf, padded silently across the carpet, preceding his owner. Torvi followed, making her entrance a spectacle of opulence and lethal grace. She wore a long, flowing black gown with a fitted bodice. The top featured sheer fabric across the chest and shoulders, creating a delicate, elegant illusion sweetheart neckline with a thin V-cutout in the center. Gold floral embroidery decorated the bodice, extending onto the sheer fabric to decorate her neck and shoulders in a rich, ornate leaf-like pattern. Her long, dramatic bell sleeves were heavily detailed with the same goldwork. A black sash wrapped around her waist, defining her athletic silhouette before the skirt fell smoothly to the floor.

Fenrys slowed and then stopped precisely at Torvi’s hip, his massive golden eyes surveying the room. Torvi inclined her head, her silver hair a stunning contrast to the gown. Her accent was thick and melodic. ”My apologies for the small delay, Prince Lucian. I am Torvi Jorviksdottir. It is an honar.”

She settled into her chair, her golden eyes locking onto Kilian with a slow, playful smile. ”Kilian, you look like you hafe found somethink very varm in that flask. Do you hafe enough to share vith an old friend?” She winked.

Kilian rose as Torvi approached, offering the faintest incline of his head as his gaze swept over her attire with an intentional pass. His eyes lingered just long enough to acknowledge the effort of her gown, to show her that he’d noticed. Her playful smile earned a small pull at one corner of his mouth as he met her eyes. The gaze did not go unnoticed by her.

“Impeccable timing as always, Torvi." Kilian exclaimed, tossing the flask her way. "But careful, now… That’s the same brew they were serving that night in Irinaburg. I had some sent over; figured it would help the others feel more at home. Plus, Varian whiskey is more useful to me than Caesonia’s watered down swill. It’s stronger, more…flammable." He said, the hint of a smirk on his face shifting into a crooked and mischievous grin as he looked back towards the blindfolded woman just long enough to make his point.

As his gaze returned forward facing, he offered Torvi a delinquent wink and then turned his attention to the literal 200lb wolf in the room. "And I see I’m not the only one who brought a date to our little gathering. A dire wolf in the gods damned Gossamer…Hilarious." Kilian stated, voice dripping with dry wit.

There were things that Lucian would have never expected to find in a place such as the Gossamer; dragons, unicorns, and whatever creature had just sauntered in like it owned the place. It took him a moment of staring at the wolf before he noticed the owner behind it. She looked about his age and had an air of confidence around her, which made sense considering the company she kept. His gaze shifted to the wolf again as the thought crossed his mind before returning to the woman.

The woman was beautiful by all standards and he knew she knew it based purely on the way she carried herself and dressed herself. She all at once fit in, and stood out. It was mildly impressive. Dog, not withstanding.

”A pleasure to meet you, Torvi.” He replied coolly. His gaze now flickered between the thing at Kilian’s side and the giant wolf seated next to their companion. It was comical, really. He could only imagine how this looked to outsiders. A Prince, a man with a woman bound in chains, and a devilishly attractive woman with a wolf the size of a small bear. Comical.

Lucian’s mind had begun to wander as the two spoke, but was pulled back in when he heard talk of Varian Whiskey. His gaze shifted from the wolf to Kilian and the flask he carried, a brow raised at him as the faintest smirk tugged on one corner of his lips. He watched the flask pass hands with mild amusement.

Torvi’s silver hair swayed as she smoothly grabbed the flask from the air. Without looking, she unscrewed the top and brought the cool, familiar metal to her lips. The raw, peat-smoked Varian whiskey hit her like a pleasant memory. It tasted like home.

"Irinaburg..." she murmured, a soft, dangerous smile appearing as she lowered the flask and sat down. The subtle heat in her eyes was meant for Kilian alone. "That was a very varm and vild night.” She hummed before she took another, longer sip, enjoying it. Then Kilian mentioned a "date" and her gaze shifted to Fenrys. She sent a cool, amused look back at both men.

"Fenrys is the most handsome partner, yes? In my village, if you are chosen to become Ulfhednar as a child, you are paired with a volf pup. Legend says your life is tied to theirs and vhen one dies, the other feels it so deeply they might not survive.” She paused, then tilted the flask toward Lucian in offering, a challenging spark in her golden eyes as she shared her story. She figured Kilian wouldn’t mind, and she had noticed him eyeing the container. "Of course, this is all myth and legend, so who can say if it is true? I can tell you that Fenrys comes from a special breed of dire volf that lives much longer than your average volf." As if in answer, Fenrys looked to Lucian and it almost seemed like the wolf smirked before dipping his head respectfully to the Prince.

Lucian had heard skin deep rumors about the Ulfhednar. Never anything substantial, so he was eager to hear as much as he could about them. He unconsciously leaned forward, his eyes now locked with hers as he listened.

He smirked again as the flask was offered. He made a quick glance with Kilian to check if the male was okay with this before lifting it to his lips. Kilian offered a simple nod as permission.

The warm burn on his throat as he swallowed it down brought back memories that felt like a distant, numb dream. Someone else’s life, someone else’s story.

He ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, as if trying to get rid of the taste as soon as possible out of fear of becoming that person once again. Lucian turned to look back at Fenrys as Torvi spoke. Lucian knew enough about wildlife, especially the beast sitting in front of him, to know that he needed to be respectful in return. He offered a low bow of his head to the wolf.

”How do they pair you?” He asked out of curiosity, his gaze fairly innocent as he looked back at her again. He motioned to offer the flask back to her.

Torvi accepted the flask back, replacing the cap and passing it back to Kilian. She leaned back, the gold on her sleeves catching the light.

”Ve call it the Sjald-Vaka–the Soul-Vigil,” she explained. ”It is a hunt for the other half of your spirit. Between seven and nine years old, ve are left in the High Crags. Meanevhile, the volf mothers bring their litters to the slopes at the same time. You vander for days, starving and vatching, until you feel a pull in your chest that matches the fire in your blood. You are looking for the one who completes you.”

She glanced down at the silver grey head near her knee.
”I vas stubborn and climbed too high. I got trapped on a frost-slicked ledge in a blizzard. I thought the mountain had claimed me, but then I felt him. Fenrys didn't just find me, he hauled me back from the drop by my cloak with all his pup strength and guided me through the vhiteout. Ve valked out of the mist and snow together.”

Fenrys let out a low, vibrating chuff, his tail giving a heavy thud against the floor. Torvi looked down at him, arching a silver brow with a playful smirk. ”Vhat? You think you can tell it bettar? Be my guest.”

She laughed softly before turning her focus to Kilian. ”But enough of the old vays. Kilian, you hafe the floor.”

Giving Torvi a pleased nod, Kilian took control of the moment. The hunter leaned forward onto the table with his elbows, resting his chin on clasped fists and smiled smugly at his companions.

“I’ll start with the basics.” His voice emerged with the air of superiority and intensity that Kilian had come to be known for. “Plain and simple… This kingdom is a disaster. These people have let the cancer of magic spread far and wide like the imbeciles they are. There is no discipline, no fear of consequence. Abominations roam the streets and those who pretend to have power have become complacent.”

The disgust he held for the situation was obvious as he spoke, as was his disdain for those responsible. “All of that ends now. The foolish bitch of a queen that called us here was outed by her own son as a witch. That makes our job even easier. King Edin is desperate. He’s malleable and far more of a simpleton than his wife. She was foolish, but the pig of a king is an actual fucking fool… And with the church behind him, we’ll have little to no resistance here when it comes to our mission.”

Kilian leaned back in his chair, his fingers wrapping around a piece of bread as he brought it to his lips and took a bite before continuing.

“Our Vanguards have observed the auras of the majority of Sorian’s nobility. We are building files on each. It is evident that Magicae has infected many among them, though a few stand out among the rest. ”

Kilian reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and revealed a dossier, which he slid over to Prince Lucian. “I’ll get to the others in a moment, but let’s start with Prince Callum Danrose. His aura is…disgusting. This shows us that the arcane runs deep in the royal bloodline. Like mother like son, it seems. He is by far our biggest hunt. However, we must proceed with caution. Despite how I would personally rather chain him up in streets and make an example of him with public execution… It would be risky to go so public when it comes to the Prince. The throne is already unstable, and outing another Danrose for magic only makes things worse.”

Swapping the bread for his glass, Kilian takes a nice long swig of his drink as he lets the information settle amongst Torvi and Lucian.

“But make no mistake, we will bring the Prince to justice in due time. We will cleanse this kingdom of his vile soul.”

Pines Holler - A Small Town SoL Sandbox RP [NOT Accepting]

Definitely interested!

Lancer [mechs, magic, and intrigue]

Interested for sure

✨Beyond The Veil✨

---

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

---

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."

---

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