Oso

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

GM Post: Onward to Princes & Thrones

---

The evening turns to night, and the night drags on as tankards get emptied, then filled back up repeatedly. Conversation comes and goes. Sometimes you’re part of it, sometimes you’re just nearby, sharing space. It’s different now…not comfortable exactly, but not quite as distant either. You’re not strangers anymore, at least not quite.

There are small moments between you that stick. A laugh that goes on a beat longer than expected. Someone holding eye contact, then not looking away right away. Silences that don’t need filling. Whatever this is, this group dynamic, it’s starting to take shape.

But like all things, eventually the night gives out. Rooms get claimed and doors shut behind you as you find your way to rest after such a strange fucking day. But of course, the tavern keeps going without you.

But even among the group, not everyone turns in. Bastion settles in the hallway outside Phia’s door, back against the worn wood, as still as if he’s part of the building itself. And as the rest of you sleep, he doesn’t move from that spot…he just stays right there, keeping watch over you all.

Morning arrives whether anyone’s ready for it or not. Downstairs, the air is thick with stale ale and salt. The crowd’s thinner now, with people recovering more than living. It’s not empty, this place is NEVER empty, but the energy’s different.

And they are already there. All three of them.

Beckett stands in the middle, relaxed but alert while he sweettalks the barmaid that came in as Grelda’s relief. Rory’s beside him, restless, one hand near her blade and the other on a nice thick piece of bread as she takes a frustrated bite. And Gnarly… Well, Gnarly is staring into a steaming cup of black coffee like it’s the depths of the deepest, darkest parts of the very sea itself. All the lights are on, but no one is home as that massive hunk of a handsome Orc is somewhere else entirely in his mind’s eye.

Beckett notices you coming and gives a faint, knowing smile. “Well,” he says, easy and controlled. “There you are… The Prince is expecting you.”

And without delay, they get straight to it.

You’re led out into Port Verge as the three begin escorting you once again. The streets here don’t make much sense…too narrow in some places, opening up without warning in others. Buildings lean into each other, patched together from whatever was available: driftwood, scavenged stone, pieces that look stolen more than found. The air carries salt, smoke, and something metallic underneath it all. And the people notice you, just like they day before. Maybe there are a few less stares overall, but not a one of you are looked at like you belong there. If anything, there is an odd expectation in most of the onlookers' eyes…

As though they all know something you don’t.

Then you see it.

Seadragon Keep. In all of its ramshackle, but somehow still ominous glory. It looks like something that refused to collapse and then got rebuilt by people who didn’t care how it looked, only that it held. Old stone reinforced with ship hulls, jagged planks hammered into place, towers lashed together with rope and iron. Flags whip in the wind…mismatched, worn, but unapologetically present. Cannons are positioned wherever they fit. Oh, and of course there’s the occasional skull or other odd decorations set into gaps between stones or wherever the pirates preferred their morose little messages of threat.

Guards line the entrance. Real guards, armed to the teeth and with looks that could kill on their own. As you approach, their focus shifts to you, but as they see the trio accompanying you, they let you pass. The gates open slowly, the sound deep and heavy, like the place itself is waking up.

Inside, it’s no cleaner, no more refined…just bigger. The structure changes as you move through it. Stone turns to wood, wood to iron, pieces of ships worked into walls and ceilings wherever they were needed. Nothing matches, but everything holds. People move with purpose. Some glance your way, but most inside don’t seem to care at all. Either way, they know you’re here. You’re led upward, deeper in, until two massive, intricate but makeshift doors open.

Before you lies the throne room.

The space is wide, built from the original bones of the fortress and reinforced over time with thick beams and the massive rib bones of some kind of giant creature. Light cuts in through high, broken, stained-glass windows, falling in sharp angles across the room in colorful, kaleidoscopic patterns.

At the far end sits the throne. Pieces of wreckage, iron, carved stone, all forced together into something solid and intentional. It’s rough, jagged, and completely unmistakable.

And seated upon it is not the aged, burly prince of pirates that perhaps you were expecting. Instead, a figure much younger, at least in appearance, looms atop the throne. His skin holds a deep, ocean-blue hue, not flat but shifting subtly in the fractured light, like sunlight filtering through restless water. It catches the colors spilling in from the shattered stained-glass above… reds, golds, greens… and they ripple faintly across him, alive in a way that makes it hard to tell where the light ends and he begins.

His hair falls in dark dreadlocks, some bound loosely with bits of cord and tarnished metal, others left to fall free around his face and shoulders. And then there are the scars. They do not ruin his face, instead they define it...giving his young appearance more of an edge than one would expect. Thin lines and deeper cuts, old and earned, carved across flesh. One catches the light just right when he shifts… a pale streak against blue skin, sharp enough to draw the eye.

A long, weather-worn coat hangs from his shoulders, rich in color but frayed at the edges, embroidered in gold that has seen salt, blood, and too many storms. Beneath it, layered fabrics of deep reds and off-whites, open at the chest just enough to reveal cords of muscle and a few more scars that disappear beneath cloth and story alike. Jewelry rests at his throat and wrists… not gaudy, but deliberate. Each piece chosen. Each piece kept.

Nothing about him is accidental.

One hand rests lazily against the arm of the throne, fingers tapping once… twice… slow and thoughtful. The other grips the hilt of a blade planted casually beside him, as if it has always belonged there… as if it’s part of the throne itself.

He leans forward, taking in the sight of you all as his eyes move across the group. Beckett, Rory, and Gnarly back out of the room and close the doors behind them. You realize you are entirely alone with this Prince in a room that feels far too vast and empty with so few souls inside.

Finally, he speaks.

“I am not sure what misfortune led to your arrival on my island.”

He begins, his voice is not deep but it is smooth, and oddly it holds some kind of light resonance that is reminiscent of the sound of waves crashing against shore.

“But know this now and accept it as truth. While you are here in the domain of Prince Ravic Dane, you stand as property of the Seadragons. For I am him, and everything around you belongs to me. If you wish to live, I suggest you make the choice to find peace with such a fact.”

The young Prince continues, his elbows resting on his knees as his hands come together underneath his chin.

“Let’s keep it simple and begin with introductions. I wish for each of you to stand before me and tell me who you think you are.”

Pines Holler [Not Accepting]

_{Location — His truck / The bad place Interacting With — N/A}

────────────────────────────

The hum of the ’88 Ford’s engine purred to life with a bit of a stutter. The truck wasn’t as vital as it once was, but Boone did what he could to keep it going. He much preferred his bike, but sometimes an extra seat, like the one Banjo currently occupied, was required.

Banjo shifted beside him, nails clicking softly against the worn floorboard before settling in on the seat. His tail thumped lazily against the leather, excited for the opportunity to go along for the ride.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires as they pulled out, and Banjo wasted no time shoving his head out the window, ears flattening back as the wind rushed past. His tongue lolled out, tail wagging even faster. They barely made it past the bend when his phone buzzed.

Boone’s brow furrowed with curiosity as he reached for it, glancing down at the screen. The glow lit his face faintly, washing him in pale blue as he looked at the notification. It was a message…from Ms. Stella, which was odd because she historically struggled with using her phone to do anything other than make calls. What was even stranger was the contents of the message. It was just an address followed by one word: Help.

Boone’s hand tightened around the phone as something cold settled low in his gut. He looked at it again like maybe it would change, like maybe there’d be more to it the second time, but there wasn’t, and it was obvious that something wasn’t right.

Banjo huffed happily into the wind, oblivious to the dread that began to grow in his human’s chest, and Boone let out a slow breath through his nose as his thumb hovered for a moment over the phone. He thought about the bar, about the power being out… about minding his own business for once. But he had never been particularly good at that, and if something really was wrong with Ms. Stella and she needed his help, he’d never be able to live with himself if he didn’t try.

So, he turned the wheel.

The truck lurched slightly as he accelerated, the sudden motion pulling them in the opposite direction. Boone shook his head faintly, a quiet exhale leaving him as he settled back into the drive.

The road stretched longer than it should have. By the time the house came into view, the sky had dimmed into that heavy gray that came with the outage, and the place itself sat in complete stillness. No lights or movement, just quiet.

Boone slowed as he approached, eyes scanning the house and the yard as he pulled to a stop. It looked normal enough at first glance. A regular place on a regular street, though maybe abandoned for some time. Across the way, kids played like nothing was wrong, laughter carrying faintly through the air as a ball bounced against pavement.

He killed the engine.

Banjo turned toward him, head tilting with that same puzzled curiosity, like he could sense something had shifted but didn’t understand what. Boone reached over, scratching behind his ears for a moment. The gesture was just as much about comforting himself as it was for the dog.

“Stay,” he said softly. Banjo’s tail wagged, but he did what he was told. Boone leaned back in, turning the AC up just a touch before rolling the windows up enough to keep the dog from jumping out. Then he stepped out, the truck door creaking faintly as he pushed it open.

He paused for a moment as a thought came into his mind. Turning back to the truck, he leaned in and opened the glove box. His hand wrapped around the grip of the pistol tucked inside, the familiar weight settling into his palm as his thumb brushed along the edge. For a moment, he just stood there, considering it. Then his eyes flicked across the street to those kids playing in the yard.

Boone held onto the gun for another second before letting it go, the decision settling quietly as he closed the glove box with a soft click. All he could think about was something going wrong and one of those innocent kids paying the price, something he wasn’t willing to manifest.

The walk up to the front door felt louder than it should have, gravel shifting beneath his boots and the old porch creaking faintly under his weight. A faded sign hung near the door, its edges worn and peeling from time.

It read: Knock around back.

Boone frowned slightly but reached for the handle anyway, but of course it was locked.

He sighed again, tension settling into his shoulders as he glanced back toward the truck. Banjo was watching him, head tilted, ears perked as if waiting for some kind of cue.

Boone gave a small shake of his head.

“Yeah… I know, buddy.” He whispered. “This is a terrible idea.”

Then he turned and made his way around the side of the house, his pace slowing with each step as that feeling in his gut grew heavier. The backyard came into view, and with it the back door… which, of course, was eerily cracked open and dark as black on the inside.

Boone stopped about fifteen feet away, his posture tightening slightly as he took it in.

“Ms. Stella?” he called out, his voice carrying just enough to fill the space.

Nothing answered him. He swallowed, pulling his phone out again and checking the message, confirming what he already knew. The address was right. He hadn’t made some kind of mistake or pulled up to the wrong place. This was it. He considered his options for a few seconds that felt like minutes, but soon, his thumb hit the call button.

He raised the phone to his ear, listening as it rang… and then his chest tightened when he realized the sound wasn’t just in his ear. The phone was ringing inside the house. He hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket.

“Ms. Stella?”

He called again, louder now, concern threading into his voice.

Still, there was no response.

The hesitation didn’t disappear, but it shifted, buried beneath a growing urgency. He stepped forward out of the instinctive need to move, pushed the door all the way open as he reached it, and crossed the threshold.

And the fuckers hit him before he had a chance to react.

Hands came from both sides, slamming into him with practiced force as his arms were wrenched back and his balance thrown forward. Boone fought immediately, twisting and driving his shoulder, trying to break free on instinct alone, but the grip on him was tight and controlled.

A fist cracked across his face, snapping his head to the side as pain flared sharp through his nose. Another followed, catching him in the eye and flashing white across his vision. The third strike drove into his stomach, folding him in on himself as the air left his lungs in a broken, strangled gasp. For a moment, everything tilted. Darkness edged in at the corners of his vision, threatening to pull him under, but he forced it back, refusing to give them that much. His breathing came in ragged, shallow pulls as he struggled to stay upright, held in place by the man on either side of him.

He lifted his head slowly, blinking through blood and blurry vision, and when his eyes focused enough to make out the figure in front of him, recognition hit.

The man smiled.

“Hi there, Booney boy…”

Boone swallowed, his voice rough and thin when it finally came.

“Where is she… what did you do with her…”

The man chuckled as he reached into his pocket, pulling out a small flip phone and holding it up between them. “Oh, the old bitch is at home with her husband. She’s fine,” he said casually. “Bet she’s looking for this right about now.” He laughed, the sound sharp and mocking as Boone’s gaze fixed on the phone. “You’re such a fucking idiot, Boone.”

The man stepped forward, grabbing Boone’s face hard, fingers digging into his jaw as he forced him to look up.

“You think just ‘cause you’re one of the dogs that you can take our business?”

He leaned in closer, his voice lowering just enough to carry something more dangerous in its tone “Did you think Pope wasn’t gonna find out you were dealing in his town?”

Boone struggled slightly against the grip, but he said nothing. There wasn’t anything to say. The knee came fast, driving into his stomach and knocking what little breath he’d managed to recover right back out of him. His body folded, and before he could recover, the man yanked him free from the hold, gripping the back of his head.

Then he slammed him down.

The side of Boone’s head smashed against the table with a sick, dull sound, and the world dropped out from under him as his body hit the floor. A broken, involuntary noise dragged from his chest as he tried to pull air back in, his lungs refusing to cooperate for a few agonizing seconds.

Boots stepped into view, stopping just in front of him as he lay there, struggling to breathe.

“Pope watches everything, boy,” the second man said, his tone calm and measured. “And no one can save you from the consequences if you keep meddling in his business. Not your club. Not your cop daddy. No one.”

There was a pause, and then a sharp snap echoed in the room. Boone’s gaze shifted just enough to see the first man break the flip phone clean in half before tossing it down onto his chest.

“Consider this your one and only warning,” he said with a grin. “You’re lucky you even get this, because Pope isn’t big on second chances.”

Their footsteps moved away, the sound of the door following shortly after, and then there was nothing but silence.

Boone lay there on the floor, his breathing slowly finding its way back to him in uneven pulls as the pain settled in where adrenaline began to fade. His chest rose and fell, each breath a little steadier than the last, though it still burned.

Somewhere outside, muffled through the walls and distance, Banjo barked. After a moment, Boone rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling as the room spun just a little less than it had before. The world felt distant and muted as his chest rose, fell, and rose again. And when his eyes settled, there was nothing in them. No anger. No fear. Not even grief. Just emptiness.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

@Remram Nolan
@Lava Alckon Drake

Gideon had remained where he stood while the brothers exchanged their remarks. Nolan’s teasing earned the faintest softening at the edge of his mouth. Soft and subtle as the smile was, it carried with it an air of pride towards his sons. As soon as there was an opening, he addressed his heir.

“Drake,” he said simply, inclining his head in greeting as his eyes passed over the young man in a brief but unmistakably thorough inspection. He did not make a spectacle of the gesture, but the loving assessment was there all the same.

“It is good to see you on your feet, son.” His gaze shifted back between the two of them for a moment longer, watching the easy exchange that had already begun. Whatever weight the day had placed upon him, the sight of them together eased some small part of it.

“Stay close to one another tonight,” he added quietly, his voice low enough that it would not travel beyond their small circle. “These gatherings have a habit of becoming less pleasant the longer they last. Especially lately. If you need me, I will not be far.”

Across the ballroom, a pause opened in a conversation near the center of the crowd. Victoria Edwards stood among a cluster of nobles, her posture as poised and deliberate as ever. For the briefest moment she looked toward Gideon. It was not a wave, nor a gesture that anyone unfamiliar with her would recognize. She simply held his gaze a fraction longer than courtesy required, her eyes sharpening with quiet expectation. To anyone else it would have meant nothing, but to Gideon, it was an unmistakable beckoning of his presence… One he would do well to answer.

His attention returned to the boys.

“I would stay a moment longer with you, my sons, but I fear this is not the time for your father to hover. Plus, it seems your mother requires me,” he said calmly, allowing a knowing chuckle to escape him.

He rested a hand briefly on each of their shoulders, a gesture both reassuring and grounding in intention.

“Enjoy the evening, if you can manage it. I know recent days have been trying, but us Edwards have built a tradition of perseverance. And remember… I am so, very proud of you both.”

With that he stepped away, the dark sweep of his cloak shifting behind him as he moved through the ballroom crowd toward Victoria, leaving the brothers to their conversation beneath the music and chandelier light.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Guardian
Location: The Kraken's Wake, on the floor, surrounded by fragments of wooden chair
Mentions: Phia @princess
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 ivory metal plating with bronze accents.
☼ Fitted harness for carrying supplies.
☼ Worn scarf
Gold Balance: 36 gold
Injuries:
☼ Left shoulder was injured in the battle and is still leaking fluid.

---

For a moment the Warforged simply stood where Corin had placed him, large hands hanging at his sides as his arcane lenses adjusted to the shifting light of the room. The laughter that had filled the air only seconds earlier had already begun to dissolve back into the usual tavern noise.

As Phia moved towards him, his optics settled, the faint blue glow within them softening as they focused. She had moved quickly, weaving through the crowded tavern floor without hesitation until she stood before him.

“Bastion?”

The sound of his name seemed to anchor him fully back in the present. His head tilted slightly, studying her face as he clocked the concern in both her voice and expression.

“Are you hurt?”

The Warforged glanced down briefly at the shattered remains of the chair scattered around his feet. The fall had not really damaged him in any significant way. At least, not enough to cause any kind of malfunctions. However, parts of him were still in disrepair from the battle in the sky and the crashing of the airship. He looked to the wound on his shoulder that still had the slightest bit of his alchemical fluid leaking from it.

Then his gaze lifted back to her.

“I am… operational.” His voice carried its usual calm mechanical cadence, though it was quieter than before. After a moment he added, with mild analytical certainty…

“The chair appears to have suffered the greater damage.”

His head tilted again slightly, a small motion that resembled curiosity. For several seconds Bastion simply looked at her. Then, as though remembering something important, he asked in return,

“And you…are you unharmed, Phia?”

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Guardian
Location: The Kraken's Wake, on the floor, surrounded by fragments of wooden chair
Mentions: Phia @princess, Arya @potter, Corin @Lava Alckon, Minerva @FunnyGuy
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 ivory metal plating with bronze accents.
☼ Fitted harness for carrying supplies.
☼ Worn scarf
Gold Balance: 33 gold
Injuries:
☼ Left shoulder was injured in the battle and is still leaking fluid.

---

As the tavern erupted in laughter, as Bastion sat there on the floor looking up at Minerva… what the others didn’t see was where the seconds in between transported the Warforged in the memory palace of his mind.

The breaking of the chair and crashing of his form upon the ground teleported his thoughts to another impact. The thud of his armored frame smashing against the tavern floor was barely a sound at all compared to the memory of his body careening into the rain-slick valley and colliding against the ground below. Rocks and stone fragmented upon impact with a force that would have left a crater if only the ground had been dirt.

Alchemical fluid leaked from Bastion’s multiple wounds. The pearlescent amethyst liquid pooled beneath him as his very lifeforce… the closest thing a Warforged had to blood… continued to spill from him like tapped tree sap from an overgrown maple. The heavy drops of rain pattered against his metal as the blue light of his arcane lens eyes flickered and dimmed second to second. He was in bad shape. The intensity of magical feedback and structural stress from the damage he had taken was unlike the traditional pain that typical mortals felt, yet the discomfort of it was torture all the same.

Flashes of what happened before he had been kicked from the ledge played over and over in his mind as his cognitive arcana tried to process what had happened, and what to do now. The image of young Tirian screaming….begging for his aid played on repeat in his mind’s eye. He had been unable to reach the boy. The forces of opposition were simply too much for any one being to manage. He had tried his best, he had slain countless in his attempt…even those of his own kind that stood in his way. Though none of the details mattered, his intention did not matter, his skill did not matter, his years of service did not matter, his years of learning what it felt like to know friendship did not matter.

_{He had failed.}
He Had Failed.

HE. HAD. FAILED.

“Oh…” He said with sorrowful understanding as he stared up at the endless rain that fell above and the 200ft stretch of depth between him and the little boy that had become his purpose.

The sound of his own voice snapped him back to reality, as that one…. simple word escaped him both in his memory and his present. He came to just in time to see Minerva yelling at the other patrons for laughing at him.

Why, he wondered. She seemed so insulted on his behalf. Bastion’s head cocked to one side like that of a confused dog as he pondered in that instant, but even that thought was brought to an abrupt end as he was impressively hoisted from the ground and back onto his feet by his old comrade, Sir Talmor.

”Alright big guy remember us normal people use chairs that can’t take all that metal you call an ass. Maybe kneel near the table for now? But take it easy, Big Red.” The Gem Knight instructed. Bastion nodded compliantly but remained quiet.

The sounds of the others talking drifted out into a numb resonance in the background as he looked at each of them, one by one taking in the sight of the people he had met since boarding the airship that had changed everything. Finally, his eyes fell onto Arya and then Phia in the distance. His thoughts turned back to Tirian, the hue of his dark magenta hair was not dissimilar to that of Phia’s… Though the girl’s was lighter, prettier. He reflected on his failure then, on what he found when he climbed that 200ft back up the side of the ravine. His arcane core felt like it was sinking down into his stomach.

Would he fail them too?

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Stratya, Kazumin, Cassius, Olivia & Charlotte

Part 3

Time: Ignis 2 Evening
Location: On the way to the Vikena’s Sorian Estate

_{Mention: Violet @Tpartywithzombi Alexander @FunnyGuy}

---

After the two had left, Cassius, Lottie and Stratya were left in the den.

Charlotte was still sitting where she’d been left on the couch, shoulders subtly curled inward as if she could make herself smaller. Her hands rested in her lap, pale and trembling, fingers laced too tightly together.

The healing had helped—there was no denying that. The sharp ache had dulled into a bearable inconvenience, and she felt more anchored to the moment. Still, it wasn’t yet easy to keep both feet in reality when her mind kept snapping back to that tavern.

Cassius was glad to see that Olivia’s spell had done its job. The word relief was not strong enough to describe how it felt to see the sight of Charlotte’s wounds closed and no longer bleeding, though the blood that had already stained her face still lingered.

He walked over to her, the supplies he and Kazumin had gathered in his grasp, and knelt down in front of her where she sat on the couch. Their gaze met now that he was down to her eye level, and just like every other time she had looked at him…the storm of the bastard’s mind calmed and he felt something stir behind his chest.

The moment he lowered himself, Lottie’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. She hadn’t forgotten, despite the chaos, that she wasn’t supposed to be near him.

But she still leaned forward, as if her body had already chosen before her logic could argue. Her pupils were still blown, too dark for the warm den light, and when she blinked it was slow. She looked like a girl who’d been forced to grow up in the span of one night without any say in it.

“Here, let me help you.” Cas said, gently raising the wet washcloth to her as he softly began to wipe the blood from her hairline and down her face where it had dripped.

She flinched on instinct at the first brush near her skin. Her shoulders jumped, then she caught herself, ashamed of the reaction, and forced her body to be still. He worked delicately, with a touch that was more tender than a man like him should be able to perform. The warmth of it made her chest ache in a way she didn’t know how to describe. Her lips parted with the intention to say something, but the words died on her tongue.

Soon, the blood, sweat, and tears that stained her beautiful face were washed away. “You look…perfect” Cassius spoke aloud, though it was not intentional. That thought had been meant to remain just that, a thought. The sound of his own words caught him off guard, his eyes meeting hers once more.

A soft inhale followed his words, and Lottie could only stare at him, her eyes searching his as they held each other’s gaze, her lashes still clumped together where tears had dried.

“Uh…” He scrambled to find words to cover what he had just said; some way to disguise it all or pivot or…anything that might help. He found none. Instead he did something he had not done since he was a child; he looked away with a little bit of embarrassment and a healthy dash of self-punishment. And yet, even as he turned from Lottie’s gaze, he could not help but smirk at his own mishap.

And she, too, smiled softly, her gaze refusing to leave him even as he looked away. Maybe she was too weary to retreat into herself the way she usually did, too exhausted for the nervous little panic that always made her look anywhere but at him. So instead, she stayed. She watched him, as if watching could keep him there.

Barely a second later, the man recovered best he could and turned to the knight captain. “Captain Durmand… I hope the little witch’s magic worked wonders on you as well. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Watching Cassius dote on Charlotte and almost, almost compliment her was cute and everything, but Stratya’s mind kept wandering back to how she’d failed. One man died. One man was maimed. And one woman, who’s plight continued even as she sat thinking, was kidnapped. And here she was, resting. She was in shape enough she could possibly fight again, yet-

He caught the captain looking at her left hand. “Mm?” Her gaze turned to him with a start, her hand coming in to tuck against her body. Her eyes firmed with resolve as she eyed him, “yes, ac’ually.” Captain Durmand recognized another combatant when she saw one. A knock at the door interrupted her, and she moved to stand, bearing caution in her voice, “I will answerr.”

---

Roman was beginning to feel much better now that the second healing potion had taken effect. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his men had spread out around the estate—he counted seven of them. Apparently, word of the events at the tavern had traveled fast; reinforcements had arrived, ordered to pose as drunken merchants and sailors enjoying the night air.

At least they had brought what he asked for: the flasks and the music box.

His attention returned to the obstacle before him: the large, ornate doors of the Vikena estate. With a hurried motion, he rapped his knuckles against the wood a few times. He immediately stepped back, tucking himself against the frame and pulling his hood up to obscure his face.

After a quick peek outside, Stratya Durmand opened the door, “oh, thank t’ Gods, it’s only you.” She looked around behind him, quickly, “come in.” She stepped aside to let him in and shut the door herself, scanning the exterior quickly as she did.

It came out with a sigh, “we ‘ave a guest.” She sounded tired. Deeply tired, not from lack of sleep. Alas, now was not the time to be tired. Her stubborn vigilance spotted the music box he carried. Yes, of course.

Lottie rose and stepped to where she could see through the archway into the foyer. Her posture relaxed, her shoulders dropping as she recognized Roman’s face. A soft smile painted her features. “Oh thank goodness. Roman, please come in, darling.” She folded her arms tightly around herself. “Close the door quickly now and both of you come into the den.”

A pleasant smile hid the emotions he crushed down in his mind. His thoughts raced with what he could and couldn’t do to free himself from his bond and one day return to… her. They were just more voices to silence. Right now, he needed to think clearly. He needed to tell them the truth, so that maybe one day he could be free.

He nodded at Stratya, pulling back his hood and stepping quickly inside. Clutching the case in his hand, he walked toward the den with a questioning look. “Guest?”
Who could they have picked up on the way here? The list of possibilities vanished the moment he stepped into the room. His eyes locked with Cassius, and he froze. Cas met his gaze with a slow, rhythmic blink of pure confidence.

Surprise quickly turned to confusion, and then to a glare. His free hand instinctively moved to the hidden blade at his waist. His eyes scanned the man, flicked to Charlotte for a brief moment, then snapped back to Cassius.

“Why is the son of Calbert here?”

He hadn’t seen the man since the dinner, and his voice was sharp with accusation. Did Calbert know already? Did he send his son to infiltrate their group? It was paranoia, and Roman knew it, but he couldn't stop the thought.

Cassius stepped towards the mountain of a man… a hollow, cynical laugh escaping him. It was a defiant sound, a reaction to being labeled as simply somebody’s son when the man before him clearly knew who he was. That much was clear from their very public and less than ideal interaction the other night. Lord Ravenwood didn’t just know Cassius Vael as the recently revealed son of a Count, no… Roman knew of his reputation from the life the man had recently left behind.

His eyes were locked on the new arrival as he began to speak.

“I could ask the same thing about Violet Damien’s abuser.” Cas said with unshakeable poise.

At first, Stratya wondered why Roman had phrased it so. The son of Calbert, not… Lord Vael or The Bastard or some such. No, he named Calbert. Had there been purpose to that, or was it just a jab at Lord Damien, not naming him directly?

They were about to start at each other, an irritated growl escaped Stratya’s throat before she spoke sternly, “I will not hearr bickering at this tyme. Therre is a woman ou’ therre sufferrin’ ferr ourr lack o’ prrowess, and I will hearr nowt but how tae save herr. Lady Kalliope fough’ brravely, you will not disrrespect herr current perril wit’ infigh’ing.”

She turned to Cassius then, whose demeanor had shifted suddenly at the mention of Kalliope. “Lorr’ Damian, ye asked if y’ could do anythin’ ferr me, an’ I said yes. I need yerr swordarrm, and I rregre’ tae say thah’ I nae ken ourr foe. I underrstahnd if ye rrefuse.”

Lottie’s breath caught, and her gaze darted between the three of them. Finally, she took a small step forward and positioned herself between Cassius and Roman. Her gaze flicked once to Roman’s hand at his waist before returning to his face, soft and pleading. “Roman… please,” she said quietly, voice still a little rough around the edges. “I know why you’d think it, truly I do—but he was just helping us get back home.” She let her eyes drift to Cassius and her expression twisted with concern for his statement.

It’s hard to imagine Roman hurting Violet, let alone anyone… But I remember that banquet quarrel.

Nonetheless, Stratya’s words struck deep. Charlotte gave a weary shake of her head as if forcing the panic and the pride in the room to settle, and she turned to Cassius with resolve. “Stratya’s right. Kalliope was taken, and I won’t allow anything else to be placed above that. We cannot fail her again.” Her fingers tightened together at her waist. “While we’re all here, we should make a plan tonight.” Cassius took in her words, eyes darting about as he processed things.

Roman's hand dropped from his waist, not to draw a weapon, but to push the white handkerchief deeper into his pocket until the embroidered 'V' on the corner slipped from view. His eyes darted toward Stratya, but he didn’t truly relax until Charlotte stepped between the two men.
Only then did his gaze soften. His stance shifted from a defensive crouch to something more neutral. He did not trust Cassius—not because of his reputation, but because of the name he now carried.

Her voice softened on the next part, her guilt becoming audible. “And tomorrow… we find Sjan-dehk. If anyone might know why someone would want her—if there’s a reason, or a trail—we need it.” It didn’t take long for her brows to knit and for another important topic to wander into her mind. “ Oh… And Cassius… If you don’t mind me, dear… Who was that man that came out of your estate?”

Lottie’s final question had jolted Cassius out of his mind, where he was already busy putting some semblance of a plan together with what limited information he had, and brought him back to reality. He met her eyes once more, and the visage of the man she spoke of appeared in his memory.

“That was Marek Delronzo, head of the Black Rose…but we can discuss him at a later time.” He said, shifting focus back to the revelation that had just been dropped on him.

Charlotte’s eyes darkened as her pupils widened. She subsequently angled her body the other way as she instinctively covered her mouth.

“I need you all to tell me everything about this situation with Kalliope. As much as you can remember.” Cas’s gaze flicked over to Stratya. “I’ll help you find her. I’ll do anything and everything in my power to bring her back safe.”

Stratya gave a firm nod, “I thank you.” Lord Cassius and Lady Kalliope knew each other, then? Interesting, but irrelevant.

A servant emerged from the hallway leading to the carriage stage. “Captain Durmand, your carriage has arrived.”

Stratya inhaled sharply through her nose, “aye, fynally! Show them in.” She turned to the group again, “Th’ man thah’ took us rround t’ guarrd, Gale, and my lieutena’, Clea’well, will need tae hearr all this. You c’n trrust them.”

New faces and people he didn’t trust. This seemed to be the common theme for the evening. Could he tell them everything? Would they even want to hear it?

They would have to. The subtle scent of Violet’s perfume reminded him of his promise. It didn’t matter if they didn’t want to hear it; he needed allies, he needed friends, and sometimes trust isn’t earned—it's given.

He clutched the crate in his hands tighter, his gaze drifting from the two new faces he recognized. When they first arrived, he had placed tails on them, realizing now that they had done the same with most of the people here. No matter. They had a job to do. He had a job to do.

He paused for a moment, straightening his posture as he looked at Cassius. “My apologies.” His words were sincere. With a sigh, he continued, “There will always be orders I can't say no to.” His eye contact broke from Cassius halfway through the comment. It wasn’t shame, just a sadness he couldn’t quite place.

He stepped fully into the den. He set the crate on a table but kept the music box in his hand. The information he was gathering just from being here was answering some questions while raising others.

“I do have some information—mostly about how everything is setting itself into place—but not necessarily about where Kalliope might be.” He looked to Cassius then Charlotte and over to Stratya and her men, “I trust Charlotte’s and Stratya’s judgment, so I suppose I will trust the rest of you.” He began to twist a small tab on the side of the music box.

“I will warn you.” His gaze shifted across the many faces around the room. “What I have to say is considered a Varian state secret. It could get you or me killed for spreading it. If you do not wish to hear this, simply step out of the bubble.”

Stratya eyebrows shot up, “we c’n spare my men thah’ parr’, I think.” She glanced at the two now standing by her and inclined her head, directing them to step back.

Roman did not elaborate or explain what the bubble was; he simply finished twisting the knob. The box itself was ornate but not eye-catching; it was simple enough to sit on a shelf in a study without drawing attention. It was just an intricately carved wooden and silver box with a small raised edge on the top.

He pressed his thumb onto the edge and whispered, “Þögnin er lífsins tónlist.”

The music box began to play as he lifted his thumb, leaving a bloody print behind. The melody was enchanting and slow, yet it seemed to drown out all sound from outside the room, leaving only the quiet music and the breaths of the people within.

Charlotte remained where she stood, a look of concern painted on her features. Cassius watched from her side, his expression full of curiosity and skepticism.

He waited for Stratya’s men to step away, then turned his back to them. “I would like to state, first off, that no one outside of my chain of command and my men knows this information.” His arm itched where the blood bond fought to silence him. He knew its effects were muted by the spells he had cast earlier, but that wouldn’t last for long.

“A proper introduction, then.” He shifted into a posture suited for a soldier standing at rest in the presence of other military personnel. His voice flattened into a monotone, matter-of-fact cadence, dropping whatever mask he had been wearing. Intensity and resolve loomed in his gaze, backed by a hint of something angry—or perhaps hungry.

“I am Lord Roman Ravenwood, Lord Commander of the 187th Varian Expeditionary Forces, Leviathan Battalion.” He paused, letting his gaze drift slowly between them. He had just confessed to heading a foreign military operation within an allied kingdom.

Lottie’s lips parted with her shock. Cas’s lips curved as the pieces settled into place. Stratya’s eyebrows raised. “Oh. Thah’ kynda sta’e secrre’.”

“My mission is to seek out and destroy the criminal syndicate that has spread its corruption into Varian and Alidasht. We tracked it to this Kingdom—to this city.” He shifted his weight, rubbing his left arm. ”This syndicate is responsible for the trafficking of magical and non-magical persons. This includes sex trafficking, slavery, and fighting pits that include children. Smuggling illegal drugs and potions, black market magic items, political assassinations, bribery, murder... I could list their crimes all night.”

He grimaced, pulling up his sleeve to check the red, raised runes that spiraled up his arm. The discomfort was evident in his voice. “The information we have gathered since arriving has led us to form several theories that are now proving to be true. One is that the Black Rose Trading Company is acting as a front for this syndicate. We have evidence of several high-ranking noble families that use or cooperate with them.”

He had to pause and sit down as pain began to radiate up his left arm and into his chest. “One of those high-ranking noble families is yours.” His gaze fixed on Cassius. “We also suspect that the King may either be helping them or turning a blind eye to it.”

Charlotte’s gaze lowered as she absorbed the weight of his words. Her mind wandered back to that little card she had found in her purse. She wrapped her arms around herself as she let her eyes slide toward Cassius with the intention of watching his reaction. It was not as though the last part was truly new information… and yet her heart still seemed to trip over itself all the same. Cas’s reaction was all but naught. His expression remained controlled and unphased.

“I am also pursuing the Black Rose.” She admitted quietly. “I have reason to believe they are pursuing me in return, and if that is to be my misfortune… then I shall at least make it useful.”

She thought about the banquet quarrel: how Roman apparently had struck Violet. Charlotte could understand necessity. She could even understand provocation, if it meant coaxing the truth from a man like Calbert Damien. But she could not quite understand why Violet had been made the price of it, and it disturbed her. It was a subject she meant to raise with Roman when the moment was right. She had no wish to villanize or accuse anyone, not after the night she had.

As she spoke, Cassius let his eyes shift to her, remembering the conversations they had on the matter…understanding the potential implications of it all. The scars that were still healing on his abdomen burned as he thought about the reality of such a force pursuing her. What they could be capable of doing if she was left unprotected.

Charlotte raised her gaze finally and said simply, “Very well, Lord Commander. It’s nice to meet you properly. “ She tapped her fingers against her arm and added, “Perhaps we ought to spend what remains of this hour on the matter that cannot be delayed—how we shall bring Kalliope home. The Black Rose may have its due… but not at the cost of her life. We will return to it when the time is right.”

Stratya’s gaze shifted from Roman to Charlotte as each spoke in turn of the Black Rose. They were both pursuing them? “This is nae t’ firrst tyme I’ve ‘earrd the Black Rrose mentioned underr suspicion. Prrince ‘ulfrric, ‘imself, seems tae suspect as much. Even o’ t’ King.” This was a problem beyond borders, they all suffered for this evil seeping from Sorian.

The captain frowned and narrowed her eyes at the memory, “an’ theirr leaderr saw us, wounded an’ bloody, stumblin’ back ‘erre..” She fought back a swear, “nothin’ doin’ ‘bout it now. Kalliope comes firrst.” She gave Charlotte a nod. The fact she suspected the Black Rose to be after her was concerning, as well.

Finally, Cassius spoke.

“Lord Ravenwood…The Lord Commander…Whatever this man wishes to be called, he is correct about the Black Rose. They are monsters, and their crimes in Varian alone are worth the extermination of the entire organization in my book.” He stopped, eyes lowering as he pondered his next words, all the while Charlotte continued to watch him. “I know that my…newly acquired family is involved with them. I wasn’t sure how deep it went in until tonight when Marek Delronzo arrived at our dinner table.”

A long exhale escaped him before he continued. “But everything you’re saying means that my family has targets on their backs. And…and I’m not sure what to do with that information. I would give almost anything to watch the Black Rose burn, but I don’t know the circumstances around my family’s involvement, and I certainly won’t watch them burn with it.”

“...Perhaps it is only fair that nothing further be done concerning your family until we have the chance for a second, proper conversation—one in which we may sift through the details with due care.” Charlotte offered, stepping back into the role of mediator preemptively.

“And if you would be willing to learn more on your family’s behalf, and then share what you discover with us, I imagine Lord Ravenwood and Commander Durmand would not object to delaying matters a few days more.”

He watched them closely, analyzing every glance, every look, every word. He was trying to read them—trying to convince himself he hadn’t just gotten himself killed. He didn’t see betrayal. Cassius was skeptical, certainly, but that was part of the job; it was how he operated. But when Charlotte admitted to investigating the Black Rose as well, Roman's eyebrow shot up. More pieces were falling into place.
As he pondered their words, he noticed something else. He wasn’t entirely sure at first, but then he caught the way Cassius looked at Charlotte. It was familiar—painfully so. It was the same way he looked at Violet. The sudden pang in his chest forced him to sit down, though he continued to listen.

“I will steer our investigations away from your family. As of now, we are focusing on my upcoming trial and on Alexander Deacon.” His brow furrowed as his thoughts drifted to where they might have taken Kalliope.

The four of them remained in the den long after the hour had grown late, their voices lowering as the house around them settled into silence. They spoke at length about how to bring Kalliope home, weighing every possibility until there was little left to examine without new information. Eventually, fatigue pressed too heavily on even the most stubborn among them. Stratya and Roman withdrew to separate guest chambers to wash the blood from their skin and claim what rest they could.

Cassius took his leave soon after, though he did not truly go far. For several hours he remained beyond the estate walls, keeping watch until he was certain no further danger lingered near the Vikena grounds. Only when the night had deepened into stillness did he finally allow himself to return home and surrender to rest.

Charlotte, however, did not follow the others to bed.

She lingered in the corridor outside her stepfather’s bedroom, knocking gently at first, then with a little more insistence when no answer came. The house gave her only silence in return. It was the same silence she had grown accustomed to in the late hours, and yet it never felt familiar. After several moments, she pressed her forehead briefly to the wood, as if listening for something that might change her mind.

With an exhale that trembled more than she intended, she slid down until she was seated against the door. Her blood-stained skirts pooled around her as she drew her knees close and wrapped her arms around them. The effort she had spent holding herself together throughout the evening began to loosen and tears spilled from her hollow gaze.

Delilah appeared not long after, dressed in her nightclothes, her blonde hair still mussed from sleep and falling loosely. She took in the sight without surprise and lowered herself softly to the floor beside Charlotte.

“He’s not home again, is he?” Lottie asked quietly after a moment.

“…I don’t think so.” Delilah replied.

There was nothing more to add. The answer was one they both understood.

So they remained there together, shoulder to shoulder against the closed door, saying little as the minutes stretched and folded into one another. An hour passed, perhaps longer, before Charlotte finally stirred and gathered what composure she could.

She made her way to her own chambers and laid down, but sleep did not come easily. When it did, it drew her into the monstrous clutches of night terrors.

The tavern returned in flashes—shouting, blood, everything. She woke more than once with her heart racing and her throat tight, the darkness of her room offering no comfort.

At last, unable to endure another hour alone with it, she slipped from her bed and crossed the hall. She knocked softly at Kazumin and Olivia’s guestroom door, waiting only long enough to be admitted before stepping inside. Without ceremony and without apology, she climbed beneath the covers beside them in the dim light of early morning and reached for their hands.

Only then, with her friends anchoring her on either side, did her breathing begin to slow enough for true rest to take her.

Recollections: Moon (Off-Urban Fantasy/Horror)

@EtherealThorn Yo I just saw this RP like 2 minutes after seeing your last message in the BtV server saying you were sad to see it go, and I was about to send you the link to this but then boom there you were lol.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

---

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

Part 2; Prior Night Flashback

---

Sicily had spat on the man, and he did not even flinch.

The glob struck the glass eye of his mask and clung there, distorting the reflected light. He watched it slide down the smooth curve for a moment, almost contemplative, before lifting one gloved thumb and wiping it away with care more fastidious than offended.

“Spirited,” he said mildly, voice muffled by the filter. “Good. Keep that attitude for all the fun we’re about to have together.”

One of the armored guards stepped closer to Sean, stopping just beyond the reach of his boots. He tilted his head, studying the hunter as if measuring him for something.

“You always talk this much when you wake up,” he said. “Or just when you’re afraid?”

The scientist at the table did not look up from the open chest cavity of the Fae subject before him.

“Do not agitate them excessively,” he murmured. “Elevated stress responses can…complicate things, and we don’t know what she has planned for them just yet..”

“Oh I think I know what’s in store for these two.” the guard replied, glancing toward Sicily as well. “And the stress is only just beginning.”

The other goons laughed as they relished the thought of what horrors could be on the horizon for these two, but the scientist did not. He simply shook his head and continued his work.

Then, faintly…so faintly most would have mistaken it for imagination…a vibration crept through the concrete beneath their feet. It was a different sound than the machines littering the room.

The guards stilled first.

No words were exchanged, there were no commands, yet the postures of almost everyone in the room shifted. One man removed his gloves, another straightened a tray that was ever so slightly misaligned. A young technician abruptly stopped working mid task and got up to leave the room.

Across the far wall, the massive rolling garage door began to lift.

Metal groaned upward, slow and deliberate, letting in a blade of exterior light that cut across the floor like a scalpel. Cold night air spilled inward, carrying the distant hush of the city above.

Headlights appeared beneath the rising door from the top of the basement entry ramp.
The engine purred as the car glided into the chamber; an immaculate, obsidian Aston Martin, its polished body reflecting the sterile fluorescence in thin silver veins. It rolled to a perfect halt at the center of the floor, and soon, the engine died.

The driver’s door did not open. Instead, the rear passenger door was opened from within.

A tall, bald man stepped out first. He wore a dark coat tailored close to the bod. His skin was pale in the way of marble long kept from sunlight, and his expression held no hostility nor warmth…only vigilance.

His eyes passed over the room once and every guard straightened.

He then stepped around to open the front passenger door.

A woman emerged with no flourish at all. She was all business and elegant practicality. She was striking for a woman that appeared to be in her 50s. Pale without fragility, her skin held the smooth stillness of polished ivory, untouched by the restless warmth of the living. Dark hair was arranged in deliberate, sculpted waves, each strand exactly where it had chosen to remain. Her features were sharp but not severe, and beautiful all the same.

Her eyes were the most unsettling thing about her…steady, unblinking, and unfathomably piercing. Deep crimson touched her lips in precise contrast to the austerity of her complexion, and the jewelry she wore was heavy and old, elegant but not ostentatious…not in the slightest.

Isolde Lenoir walked forward at an unhurried pace. The sound of the room around her diminished with her arrival.

Her gaze moved first to Sean, eyes lingering on him in absolute silence longer than anyone would have found comfortable. “I find you curious. Frustrating but curious.” She said simply.

Her attention shifted to Sicily, and remained there as she repeated her long, quiet gaze.

“The same is true of you,” she eventually said. “Both of you have made the unfortunate choice to interfere with my dealings. With my business.”

She stepped closer, heels clicking quietly against the concrete.

The bald man followed half a pace behind her, always ready to act.

Isolde stopped before the chained woman, studying her face with patient interest.

“The man called Hollow I understand. He’s a Warden, a pawn on the board of an organization that has the delusional luxury to think themselves mighty. He is simply doing his job. But you…” She mused. “You are somewhere you simply aren’t meant to be. Though I do have to offer credit where it’s due. You hid well,” she said. “For a time.”

Her gloved hand rose, fingers brushing the necklace at Sicily’s throat…the glamour charm humming faintly beneath her touch.

“But fit is time for your childish little ruse of rebellion to come to an end.”

With a single, precise motion, she tore the necklace free.

The chain snapped with a sharp metallic cry, and the illusion collapsed.

Sicily’s blonde locks drained into living red as though color itself had returned to the world, the transformation rippling through Angel’s features in an instant.

Isolde watched the change without reaction, only confirmation of what she already assumed.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I thought so.”

She let the necklace fall from her grip and onto the floor below.

“The prodigal daughter of Magnus Corvane. What a fool.” Isolde declared, turning from Angel and making her way back towards her vehicle. As she reached the passenger door, she stopped to say one, final thing.

“Let them rot here until tomorrow night. If they misbehave, strip the flesh from the Warden’s back. But do not touch the girl. She is mine, and I’ll be back in twenty four hours to collect her.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

FLASHBACK

Charlotte & Kilian

Part 1

Time: Early Afternoon of Ignis 3
Location: The Vikena Estate

---

Cherry Lane had always been a polite little street.

Trimmed hedges. Ironwork fences that were always kept scrubbed and shining. Sorian’s brightest and noblest fools going about their games of pomp and circumstance. This street had seen many wagons, travelers, and members of Sorian’s elite leave their tracks upon its cobblestone path.

However, polite little Cherry Lane had never seen anything like the retinue of Vanguard Society witch hunters that now stalked the street.

The dark cloaks of almost a dozen figures moved with true, disciplined precision. At their front walked Kilian Hale, chain in hand, shackled pet of a witch not far behind.

Iron links rasped over stone, a sound that jarred bystanders and left them unsettled as their eyes processed the sight. Some had seen him pulling the chained woman along in the banquet, others had spotted cruel sight at the Gossamer the night prior, but many others had only heard rumors. Until now, as the citizens within sight all basked in the presence that Kilian brought with him everywhere he went.

The woman at the end of his chain stood as a walking reminder of consequence. Kilian pulled her along as though she were nothing more than an obedient dog… And obedient she remained as he did what she could to match his pace. He smiled faintly as they finally reached their destination.

So this was the Vikena estate

Kilian’s fingers flexed at his side as he clutched the chain a little tighter, a surge of dark anticipation crawling its way through him. The smile he wore grew even more wicked as he turned to face his prisoner.

“This is going to be so much fun, Agony.” He declared, referring to the woman by the twisted nickname he had given her. “Are you ready to pay this Vikena bitch a little visit? Because I…am desperate…to meet her.” He said, leaning in to whisper his words into the chained woman’s ear.

Kilian raised a hand, and without question his retinue stopped in their tracks just outside the Vikena estate. He and his little pet made their way along the colorful path of Lady Vikena’s stunning estate grounds. They ascended the steps as they reached the porch, and Killian turned back to his prisoner once more with that same…wicked grin before his gloved fist knocked on the door with confidence.

That knock echoed through the manor, jarring Charlotte Vikena out of her slumber so violently it had stolen her breath. It had all been in such a manner that the line between the waking world and dream world had blurred just for a moment. Her eyes had fluttered open to an immediate betrayal of her mind: the sight of the man above her again and the feeling of his hand clamping her throat.

Luckily, there had only been time for her eyes to widen before he vanished. Though shocking, he was truly no stranger to her. She had been drifting in and out of sleep throughout the day while her night had been stolen from her by brutal night terrors, each one leaving her waking feeling a little more raw and hollow than the last.

She rose on instinct with a sharp inhale, her palms pressing deep into the cushions. Her gaze moved about slowly, her hair falling in a thick, dark tumble over her face as she peered through the strands.

Charlotte swallowed hard as she recalled the reason she had woken up in the first place, and it was then her body recalled her manners even when her mind did not.

So she stood, and crossed into the foyer, smoothing her skirt with trembling fingers, and she took her time then, pulling a shawl over her casual dress. Charlotte took far too long adjusting it, tugging it close, wrapping herself in it as though it may help hide what she felt on the inside.

When her hand found the knob, her fingers hesitated. They curled around the brass and held it still. The hairs on her arm rose as if her body knew something her mind did not yet. She drew her upper lip through her teeth and finally slowly pulled the door open a few inches.

Whatever she had expected, it hadn’t been this.

The sight beyond the threshold stole what little breath she had managed to gather and drained the warmth from her cheeks all in a single merciless instant. Her expression went blank in the same way the flame of a candle gets snuffed out. Her entire body went rigid as she froze with the helplessness of a deer caught in a predator’s gaze. She couldn’t even feel her feet anymore—only the awful certainty that she had chosen wrong.

Her grip on the doorknob tightened until her knuckles paled, an involuntary tremor spreading from her hands up her arms. Her dilated irises jumped between the scarred man to the woman in chains as if she were trying to make sense of what she was seeing and failing to move beyond the initial register of the imagery.

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even remember what words were meant to do. So, she only stood there, trembling in silence.

Kilian bowed before her; a mocking display of reverence as he absolutely drank in the shock and awe in her expression. His chiseled jaw clenched as he let his eyes fully take in the splendor of the potential future Duchess.

“Good morning, my lady,” The dangerous man announced with mischievous charm before pointing back at his plus one with a gloved thumb. “we heard you had quite the eventful night. Perhaps you should invite us in and tell me all about it.”

Charlotte’s lips parted immediately, but no sound followed. She drew in her breath again, her gaze lowering as her lashes fluttered. “G-good morning…” she managed at last in a wavering voice. Her throat worked after a swallow; her mouth suddenly felt so dry. “I… I beg your pardon–” Her brows knit as she rummaged through her mind for something sensible that could possibly belong in a moment like this.

And then, before she could even think to stop herself, the truth slipped out. “Do I… have to?” She asked helplessly and in the softest voice she had ever heard escape her lips. As the question hung in the air, her cheeks blanched more if such a thing was possible.

Kilian simply placed his boot in the doorway between them, blocking Charlotte’s ability to try and close it. He leaned down closer to her eye level, the wicked grin that often painted his darkly handsome and intense face fading into something a bit more severe.

“Oh, Lady Vikena…” He said, voice lowering. “A girl with your kind reputation surely wouldn’t turn away a couple of visitors like us, now would you?” Kilian asked. He let his body turn halfway so that he could motion to the rest of the hunters out by her gate. “I can be very convincing if needed.” His mischievous grin returned as he watched her take in the sight of his men. “Would it help if I said please?” As his question finished, the slightest, menacing little laugh escaped him as he reached past her and allowed his fingers to wrap around the edge of her door.

Her blue eyes flickered to the people by the gate, then back to him. Wordlessly, she then took a step backward to allow him entry.

“Ah, there we are…” He remarked, taking a moment to look back at his pet standing silently and submissively behind him. “See Agony, I told you she would be a good girl.”. Kilian turned back towards Charlotte, stepping past her and into her home, letting Agony enter in tow as he closed the door behind them.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Guardian
Location: The Kraken's Wake
Mentions: Phia @princess, Arya @potter, Corin @Lava Alckon, Minerva @FunnyGuy
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 ivory metal plating with bronze accents.
☼ Fitted harness for carrying supplies.
☼ Worn scarf
Gold Balance: 33 gold
Injuries:
☼ Left shoulder was injured in the battle and is still leaking fluid.

---

Bastion was not used to the noises of taverns.

Of course battlefields were loud too, but in a very different kind of way. Even with the chaos all around him in combat, Bastion had never felt overwhelmed by the noise. There, he had his orders… his mission, and all he had to do was focus on getting things done. But this…this was a lot for him to process, and unfortunately it was all at once.

The noise of the Kraken’s Wake was a tangled web of sounds of differing volumes, full of voices over voices, wooden tables struck by mugs, the squeaking screech of chairs sliding across the uneven wooden floor, and layers of laughter that spiked and dipped without warning. All of this and more was jam packed in one relatively small building… Much smaller than the corridors and fields of battle he had always felt at home in. So much in such a small place made the word overwhelming quite the understatement.

The Warforged stood where Minerva had pulled him, just to the side of the table she now sat, his shoulders angled awkwardly without him even realizing. He was half pointed toward her and half toward the bar where his gaze kept drifting.

Phia’s antlers made it easy for him to spot her, and thankfully Arya had stuck close by to the kind girl making it easy for him to keep track of the two. He had internally declared his mission to protect them all, and that had started with those two girls… but now that he was separated from them, there was the subconscious feeling that he was not performing his duties. He pondered the feeling and its accuracy, trying to take into account that his self-assigned oath was technically for the group as a whole, but the lingering phantom of his former failure made him uneasy.

A jolt of laughter echoed too loudly from behind him, pulling his attention and his gaze without him even meaning for it to. Thankfully, it seemed as though there were currently no real threats; though an argument could be made that each and every person in the room, pirate or not, seemed like a threat in their own right. As he turned back, his eyes once again found Minerva, who was pulling out a chair for him and doing something rather odd with her eyebrows. She had referred to him as her second-in-command. He too, like Corin, questioned the legitimacy of her claim, though really he was just confused. Not just by her, but by everything that had been transpiring. When he woke up from his…what was he even meant to call it…extended period of nonfunction?…When he finally awoke and realized the war had ended, there had been a growing fear in him that he would have no purpose, that his existence may prove to be obsolete. He never expected things to be so eventful.

Out of force of habit more than anything else, Bastion turned away from Minerva and back to the girls at the bar. Just to make sure they were safe. Then, he looked towards the strange woman once more, knelt down to be bit closer to her eye level, cocked his head in a way reminiscent to a confused dog, and finally spoke. His voice was louder than intended and interrupted any conversation that had still been going on within the group. It was not something done out of rudeness, rather just a case where Bastion’s general state of overwhelmed confusion caused him to barely even process that other’s may be speaking at all.

“Do you have a mission for me, Ms. Minerva?” He asked genuinely, his optics flaring with curiosity as he moved to take a seat in the chair she had so graciously pulled out for him. A chair that creaked and groaned the very moment that his weight came down upon it. It held his Warforged frame, but only for a second or two, before the wooden piece of furniture splintered and collapsed from underneath him. Bastion plummeted to the ground, the impact of his metal bottom crashing down against the tavern floor basically rattling the entire tavern and drawing the eyes of everyone within.

“Oh…” He said simply, staring up at Minerva.