princess

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: Castle Dining Hall
Attire: Dress, Amulet
Interaction: @Apex Sunburn Sjandehk @Oso Cassius @Samreaper Kazumin @JJ Doe Fritz @Helo Callum

---

Charlotte shifted in her seat, just slightly, enough to adjust the fall of her gown and give her trembling fingers something to do beneath the tablecloth. But as she did, her eyes flicked sideways and paused. Sjan-dehk wasn’t looking at her anymore.

His eyes were across the room. It wasn’t hard to follow the line of his gaze. Even if she hadn’t seen Kalliope’s red hair, the way it glimmered beneath the chandelier light like a flame as she and Cassius approached, she would have known.

There was a softness in Sjandehk's face now...Conflicted, yes, but soft in a way that struck Charlotte unexpectedly. And even though he wasn’t smiling, not really, there was a familiarity; the kind of familiarity one didn’t usually have with mere acquaintances.

Her brows lowered ever so slightly.

“So confusing,” And though his words were quiet, Charlotte heard them. She had been watching him still, even if he hadn’t realized. The words weren’t meant for her, but they struck her all the same. He then coughed, clearly trying to cover whatever had just broken loose inside him.

Rather than calling attention to his unease, Charlotte offered him a reassuring smile, choosing instead to listen attentively as he began to respond to her earlier questions. There was something comforting in the cadence of his voice that soothed her frayed nerves far more than anything else had that evening. Amidst the strange sights and whispers haunting her senses, his words felt like an anchor.

Meanwhile, his subtle fidgeting did not escape her notice, nor did the effort he made to compose himself, and in that, she found something endearing. Perhaps even familiar.

Perhaps, she thought, she had stumbled upon a kindred spirit.

“Exploring somewhere new sounds like a dream to me,” she mused, tilting her head slightly in thought. After a pause, her voice grew more wistful, “Does it feel like being the protagonist of an adventure novel? What a wonder it must be to step into a new country, not knowing what awaits. You're embarking on your very own adventure.”

Before she could respond further, their moment quietly unraveled as both of their attentions were pulled elsewhere—Sjan-dehk’s gaze drawn toward Iyen, and Charlotte’s head turning at the unmistakable sound of Count Calbert’s voice cutting through the din of the banquet,“You have just informed a room full of royals and dignitaries that my daughter, Lady Violet Damien, was struck by you... And—how did you phrase it? Ah, yes—‘gentle caress out of passion.’”

Charlotte’s lips parted slightly in surprise as it became clear he was addressing Roman. Roman—Roman of all people—the sweet bear of a man? He had struck her? She might have dismissed it as a misunderstanding, a twisted rumor, had Violet not gone on to confirm it herself. And not timidly, but with striking boldness.

There had to be a misunderstanding.

Her brows furrowed gently, and she was just beginning to lean in, ready to follow the conversation further, when Sjan-dehk’s voice gently redirected her focus.

“Put your glass down, please.”

Charlotte blinked and turned to meet his gaze, then glanced between him and the untouched wine. After a small pause, she nodded, sliding the glass away with a sheepish little smile.

“Just pretend it was never even invited to the table,” she teased lightly.

Then he touched her neck.

Her breath hitched, her lashes fluttered, and a blush bloomed across her cheeks like a sunrise creeping up her skin. “No heat. No fever.”

“Uh—” she breathed, her voice thinner than usual, her eyes wide as a deer’s.

And then, as if the gods hadn’t teased her enough, he swept the back of his palm across her forehead, brushing a few loose strands of her hair aside with it. The light touch made her swallow hard. “No fever,” he repeated with a smile. “So you are not sick. Only drunk.”

Charlotte managed a small, flustered laugh, her hands fluttering awkwardly toward her lap. “O-Okay. I suppose I am... inebriated, then.” The warmth of his gesture lingered like a soft echo against her skin, and though it had undeniably left her flustered, she couldn’t say the affection was unwelcome. In fact, she may have even needed it.

After the weight of overhearing Thea and Leo speak of her with such dispassion, whether those words had truly been meant or simply twisted—this moment, this gentleness, had settled like a balm over a bruised wound, whether it had been real or imagined. To feel, even fleeting, like perhaps she had mattered was comforting.

“S-Sorry! I, ah, I do that for my sister, when she is not feeling well. To check…Body heat. And you, ah, you remind me of her. A little.” He cleared his throat, then extended a glass of water to her. “A-Anyway, here. Water. You should drink more. Wash the wine away from you, yes? Then, you will be fine.”

She accepted the glass and took a long sip, more to soothe his nerves than her own. Then, as her eyes lifted to meet his, there was a gentleness in them that reached beyond the moment.“It must be absolutely lovely to have a little sister,” she said softly, the corners of her lips curved into a wistful smile. “And she must be quite lucky… to have someone like you watching over her.”

Her fingers idly tapped against the glass, a soft rhythm betraying the heaviness behind her words. “I always dreamed of having a sibling growing up…” There was a softness in her voice when she added, “And if I could’ve chosen a brother,” she continued, a tender smile forming, “I think… he would’ve been just like you.”

Her fingers suddenly found his again in a quiet gesture of reassurance. “You’re doing wonderfully, you know,” she said, her voice as gentle as the first breeze through spring leaves. “It’s not easy, being somewhere new... I remember the first time I traveled beyond Caesonia. I can scarcely remember, as I was just a little girl then, visiting my baaba in Kimoon. I was so frightened by how different everything felt. But in time, with gentle faces and open arms, even that strange new place began to feel like a second home..."

Her eyes lit up as his earlier words dawned on her, widening with an almost childlike wonder. “Oh, and sailing?” she gasped, leaning in a little as her hands clasped together in front of her chest. “I’m turning positively green with envy. I’ve read so many swashbuckling pirate tales that it’s become a bit of a ridiculous fantasy of mine. Sailing across the open sea, wind in my hair, and, you know...” She lowered her voice dramatically, eyes sparkling,“...fighting off a kraken or two. Strictly for heroics, of course.”

She paused, then laughed at herself with a soft shake of her head. “Though in reality, I’d probably trip over a rope and get eaten first. Very inspiring.”

“... Oh, and did I not just see your bastard assault one of my father’s esteemed guests?

It had as if fate had orchestrated the moment, as if the air had bent to guide the sound of Callum's voice to her. Her gaze snapped toward him as if pulled by an invisible cord.

There was no mistaking what she had heard.

And the reaction that bloomed in her chest was swift and visceral. It was an unfamiliar kind of anger rising like a tide she hadn’t realized she could carry. Without meaning to, she fixed Callum with a stare so sharp it could’ve carved stone. Perhaps it had been even more cutting than even Calbert’s reaction in that moment. As he went on, she commented out loud softly to Sjan-dehk, her voice laced with disbelief, “What in heavens... "

Callum had never been someone she was close to, but she had grown up watching him from afar at royal affairs, year after year. She knew his mannerisms by now and this wasn’t like him. Not in tone. Not in cruelty. He had never spoken with such calculated malice, and certainly never toward someone like Cassius another black sheep with the same sort of weight in his step.

Her brows drew together, a frown forming with the unease curling in her belly.

And yet, the possibility hovered—What if I'm not even hearing right?

Roman and Violet had seemed out of character as well, after all. It was as if everyone had been cast into unfamiliar roles in a play she didn’t recall agreeing to attend.

Even Charlotte herself.

For example, it made absolutely no sense to her that she had reacted so emotionally over Callum's words when Cassius had made his choice loud and clear.

And of course, Cassius had heard. And of course, he was going to say something—without restraint, without a filter, and without the faintest concern for the depleting decorum that the rest of the banquet clung to.

“What humors me, little prince, is this…I’m a bastard. Unwelcome here by many. A stain on the family line. A walking reminder of everything most fathers would try to bury. And a real pain in the ass at that.”

Charlotte fixated her gaze on him, a cold knot of dread forming in her stomach.

“And even still…My father loves me more than our King has ever even pretended to love you.”

Oh dear… That was much too far.

“That’s the difference between you and me, Callum. I was born a problem, and still, here I stand…as his chosen son. And you? You’re just acting like a mouthpiece for a crown that’s too ashamed to be anywhere near your head. And speaking of shame...” His words were like daggers being thrown across the room, sharp and unyielding, but it was his eyes—the way they blazed—that startled her most. That fury… it wasn’t the heat of a tantrum.

And for the briefest, fleeting moment, Charlotte wondered—How would it feel if that gaze was ever turned on her?

She had seen Cassius wear many masks, but this was not a mask. This was something darker. Something that would scorch anything that stood in its path. And though it frightened her, she couldn’t deny it. Somewhere deep in her chest, she felt proud of him. Especially as he went on to defend Violet, despite all he had said about the Damien family to her just the other night.

Then came the line.

“...Because if you do…I swear to the cunts above you call gods, and to the very king sitting right here in front of us both, that you won’t even make it to your little trial.”

Charlotte blinked. The death threat was certainly overkill. There was no delicate way around it. And yet, it wasn’t the violence of the words that unsettled her most.

It was the risk.

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and from her anxiety, the shadows returned.

Her gaze lifted slowly and uncertainly as shadows began to crawl like ink across the walls, stretching higher and thicker with every breath she took. The once-warm light of the chandelier above seemed to dim, flickering unnaturally as though the air itself had turned heavy with dread.

Charlotte stiffened.

The hairs on her neck rose, and a chill coiled at the base of her spine. She tried to tell herself it was nothing, but then she felt that dreadful feeling.

Hands.

Not seen, but felt. Cool and unseen fingers creeping up the length of her arms. They slithered like snakes over her skin, as if something was tracing the veins beneath it, trying to learn the map of her from the inside out.

The hall seemed further away now, voices muffled like she was underwater. Even Cassius’s words, just moments ago as sharp as broken glass, now felt like a distant storm behind fogged glass.

This time, she stayed perfectly still. Though fear coiled tightly in her chest, clawing its way up her throat, she didn't feel the urge to budge. But it wasn’t calm.

It was the stillness of someone who understood.

A dreadful awareness washed over her.

Her gaze shifted to the others, desperate for one of them to say something ridiculously dramatic and bring her back to reality. However, Alexander's voice was drowned out beyond comprehension, the words indistinct, swallowed by a creeping static.

I'm either poisoned or cursed.

Her brows knit together as they had earlier, and she had even wondered for a moment if perhaps she had simply gone mad. But either way, Charlotte felt a sense of resignation. If she had somehow been poisoned, then this could very well be her end.

She wondered for a moment if she should leave, or if what even she should do, but instead the thought that took over her mind-I don't think I even said hello to Kazumin and Fritz yet.

And somehow… that single, defiant thought was enough to get her on her feet.

Though her knees trembled and her heart thundered like distant hooves against the earth, Charlotte stood.

She moved first toward Count Fritz, and without a word, she slipped her arms around his shoulders from behind in a tender yet possibly unexpected hug. It lasted only a moment, but it was sincere, a silent thank-you written in touch instead of words. Then, before any reply could follow, she continued around the table with purposeful steps.

Kazumin was next.

Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around him in a warm, heartfelt embrace, one that lingered a moment longer than politeness required. He had begun to feel like a younger brother lately, a constant in her chaos, and so she gave him a big squeeze, as if to silently protect him from all the shadows she couldn’t name. What he had told her the other day was still fresh in her mind, after all.

"I'm always so happy to see you, Kazumin." She had wanted him to know, just in the off chance she hadn't gotten another chance to say it.

And before she could return to her seat, she saw Cassius stepping back toward his own. Her body moved before her mind could catch up, before reason could pull her back. And before her mind could tell her otherwise, her arms were around him too.

It wasn’t grand or dramatic, but it was real.

She knew that everything he said the other night didn't matter anymore, that he was back with Kalliope now.

Maybe it hadn't been real then for him, but it had been real for her.

And for whatever reason, in that moment, she hadn't even noticed Lorenzo had called Alexander's name, and hadn't noticed as he stepped past her, as her arms had encased themselves around him.

Ever so briefly, she laid her head on his chest the way she had at the masquerade.

Then, as if nothing had happened, she pulled away and looked up at him with a soft smile. And then, she turned and made her way back to sit beside Sjan-dehk.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

🌸 Race: Half-Elf 🌸
🦋 Class: Druidic Mystic 🦋
🍄 Location: The Bathroom🍄
🍃 Interactions: Meiyu @Tae Talis/Liana @Oso 🍃
🌼 Equipment: 🌼

Full Equipment List

✦ Druidic Staff
✦ Stone-Carved Dagger
✦ Poison-Tipped Blowgun Darts
✦ Her amulet
✦ Satchel
✦ Flint & dried tinder moss
✦ Waterskin
✦ Dried Medicinal Herbs
✦ Bag of pretty trinkets, marbles and rocks
✦ Sharpening river stone
✦ Oruna tribal moon bracelet

🪷 Attire: Outfit 🪷

Attire

✦ Antler Headdress – Elegant branching antlers wrapped in vines and blooming wild roses and other flowers, dangling with purple crystal teardrops.
✦ Thick Magenta Hair – Flowing in long, heavy waves with many braids, tiny beads and blossoms braided throughout.
✦ Forest Bralette – A natural fabric top adorned with layered leaves, hide, flowers, and shimmering gem accents across the bust.
✦ Arm Jewelry – Vine-wrapped armlets and bracelets studded with glistening stones in violet and turquoise hues.
✦ Green Cloaklet – A light green cloak clasped with a gem like amber—crafted from flora and fauna
✦ Layered Skirt – Flowing petal-draped skirt with high side slits, woven from cloth and flower petals
✦ Waist Adornments – A golden vine belt holding a satchels, feathers, and a charm pouch of herbs and trinkets.
✦ Leg Jewelry – Beaded anklets and thigh cords with gemstone charms
✦ Nature Tattoos & Paint – Faint tribal markings or nature-inspired body paint peek beneath her outfit

🪞 Gold Balance: 41 🪞
🌸 Injuries: Faint Scrapes on Shins & Knees 🌸

The instant her staff connected with the side of Liana’s head, Phia felt it.

Not just the impact, but the recognition. The cloaked woman wasn’t underestimating her anymore. That alone made Phia’s teeth grit with satisfaction, even as her bones vibrated with the backlash of each strike. Phia’s arm jolted from the impact as the woman's dagger struck against her staff, the vibrations lancing through her already-screaming wound. She staggered a small step, breath catching as her fingers fought to maintain grip.

And in that moment, Phia knew she was up against someone who had spent their life perfecting the art of killing.

As the air shifted and illusions bloomed like curling shadows, Phia didn’t falter. She didn’t need to know exactly what Meiyu had conjured. She could feel the pressure it placed on their foe, and she decided he would not question Meiyu’s intent. She would only use it. The illusions masked her next step as the blood dripped down her arm. Her heart thundered, wild and erratic, but her focus had sharpened. Phia didn’t need to kill Liana. She needed to keep her looking at her, striking at her, dancing with her fury, until the dagger from the shadows found its mark across Liana's ribs.

Phia watched her turn on Meiyu briefly, but before Phia could get a good strike in, the woman had turned back toward her, and she saw the dagger’s shift too late. The hilt struck her already wounded arm, a blinding pulse of white-hot pain exploding up her shoulder like a lightning strike through her nerves. Her fingers spasmed. The staff faltered in her grasp, and she gasped sharply.

And before she could recover, Liana’s boot drove into her stomach.

The wind was knocked clean from her lungs as she was hurled backward. Her spine struck the cold tile with a bone-jarring crack, her vision momentarily splintered into stars. Her staff clattered beside her, out of reach.

Somewhere above, glass shattered. The world dipped into chaos: light strobing, shadows stretching. But Phia didn’t move.

She lay there, one arm trembling, blood trailing from her mouth where her teeth had cut into her lip on impact. Her body screamed and her eyes burned.

However, she glared at the woman standing over her with the fury of a girl who would never go quietly.

Phia didn’t scream this time.

The pain had already become something distant, something electric that danced just beneath her skin. Her breath came in short bursts, her arm trembled with useless weight at her side, but her mind was no longer clouded by pain.

Phia’s legs coiled beneath her like a spring drawn too tight. And in the breath between one flicker of light and the next, she moved. With a sudden arch of her spine and a twist of her hips, she bridged upward from the tile, her good leg slicing low, aiming at Liana’s ankle like a striking vine. The floor was slick with blood, condensation, and shattered glass, and if her move was successful Liana would certainly fall.

In the same breath, her fingers shifted, claws erupted, black and curved, her eyes glowing like embers as the panther took hold. Whether Liana had fallen or not, she lunged with one clawed-hand, aiming to slash at Liana’s dagger arm, and tear a crimson path across it.

She spun afterward, caught her staff with a heel-flip from the floor, and rose in a crouch, every muscle coiled.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Location: Castle Dining Hall
Time: Evening
Mention: @Oso Cassius, Milo @Tpartywithzombi Violet @Tae Kalliope, Mina @ReusableSword Roman @Silverpaw Wulfric @FunnyGuy Alexander

---

Calbert had been planning to address their banquet table, greeting them with his charm as always, when a ripple of tension in the atmosphere caught his attention. Something shifted...Not in the room itself, but in the air between people. A silence, too sharp to be a coincidence. His eyes flicked to the commotion unfolding near one of the marble pillars. What he saw made his blood run cold.

Cassius had Milo St. Claire pinned against the column with the kind of force that wasn't merely physical—it was emotional, volatile, and barely restrained. But it wasn’t the confrontation that alarmed Calbert most—it was his son's face...

Cassius’s expression was stripped of its usual defiance, of his signature smirk or calculating coldness. In its place was something far worse. His eyes were hollow with anguish, his mouth tight with the strain of holding back something raw and consuming. The pain was written not just on his features, but in his posture—tense, unsteady, as if whatever had driven him forward was the last thread keeping him upright.

Cassius looked like a man unraveling.

Calbert’s heart lurched in a way it hadn’t in years, and he had nearly stood up abruptly and uncharacteristically, but his wife had suddenly gripped his knee. He watched his son tremble beneath the weight of something unseen, something that perhaps even Cassius couldn’t name.

“He doesn’t look well.”

Calbert agreed, lowly, “Something’s wrong with him… He’s not himself.”

His gaze followed the motions. Rhe way Kalliope emerged from her own spectacle, the fall that had already turned a few heads, only to insert herself into a scene she had no business being in. And yet, there she was, laying a hand on his son like she had the right to anchor him. The last thing Cassius needed right now was that bitch of a woman Kalliope. That thing, Milo St. Claire, had slithered away just in time, leaving behind the smoldering wreckage of whatever words had been exchanged. And somehow, in the quiet that followed, it was Kalliope who steadied him.

Calbert’s jaw clenched, but his expression remained unreadable. “Whatever that smug little peacock said to him… I will find out.” His voice was low, clipped, and laced with quiet venom.

Though he had been momentarily distracted from the current conversation, a voice cut through the hum like a dagger, stating something Calbert could not miss.

“If you're going to make backhanded compliments, you should put some more power into it… Like when you slapped Violet in the face.”

Calbert's spine straightened in his chair.

He didn’t turn immediately. He didn’t need to. The words were already burning themselves into the iron walls of his memory. He had cataloged the voice, the cadence, the smirking venom laced in every syllable.

Alexander Deacon.

The Count of Montauppe had heard many things whispered in ballrooms, secrets that danced on the tips of tongues like smoke over a candle... But never had something quite infuriated him like this.

Firstly, the fact that the man had chosen to share this information in a public setting, amidst nobles and dignitaries, rather than inform him—the father, the protector, the blood of the girl in question—was a move so recklessly arrogant, so fundamentally disrespectful, that it might as well have been a challenge. It was not simply the message that enraged him...It was the method. The theater of it. The implication that Calbert Damien was somehow a secondary party in the defense of his daughter.

And then came the content of the message itself.

The very image of this brute hitting his little girl threatened to unravel him. The thought of someone hurting her, after everything she had suffered, after being torn from life and dragged back to it by means she didn’t yet understand... It made the bile rise in his throat like acid. She had been stolen once by death itself, and now this man thought he had the right to bruise her in life?

His eyes were already scanning the table, locking onto Roman Ravenwood like a hawk spotting a rodent in tall grass. The intensity in his eyes was so complete that even a glance might have felt like the sun narrowing itself to a point and setting fire to a single thread.

He watched him.

He watched him breathe. He watched how his shoulders moved with each exhale. He noted the way his hand wrapped around his utensils. He memorized the cadence of his chewing, the rhythm of his blinking, the way his eyes shifted—whether they were confident, indifferent, or already guilty.

Quite frankly, Calbert looked ready to vault over the table and strangle the Varian lord with his bare hands—dignity be damned. His expression remained composed, but those sharp blue eyes of his betrayed him.

His eyes promised ruin.

He did not so much as glance at Prince Wulfric as he spoke his criticism of Alexander. His eyes remained locked on Roman Ravenwood unwaveringly. If there was a single tremor beneath that stillness, it was buried beneath decades of control. However, he was certainly unhappy that Violet was being put in a terrible position to have to publically disclose the truth.

Then the king’s voice grated against every cultivated nerve in his body.

What a buffoon.

An imbecile cloaked in a crown, swinging words like a drunkard swings fists...Loud, clumsy, and unaware of the damage left behind. To joke of striking women and trivialize his daughter being attacked in front of him like this! And worse still, to frame it in the theater of statecraft and laugh through a goblet as if it were a wine-soaked jest.

Lady Blackwood had the nerve to address such in a light-hearted manner that he did note was uncharacteristic of her, but he did not care to think much else of it. More so, he found himself more peeved at her uncle for pushing Violet for public confirmation just as the crown prince had.

Now Roman himself—he was smiling and cheerful as he dined, eyes gleaming with practiced ease, laughter falling effortlessly from his mouth. He was addressing the conversation whilst suggesting the food as if it were all small talk. That kind of composure, that lightness in the face of such a serious accusation, disturbed Calbert in ways he did not show. The lack of emotional response, the calm, almost flippant charm... it reminded him of Kazumin Nagasa.

That same detachment and unnerving ability to wear humanity like a borrowed coat.

He had no need to glance toward his daughter as Roman continued on with an excuse he had not dreamed Roman would dare give before the room. He dared to frame what he had done as some drunken mishap, a misdirected caress in a moment of passion?

His brows furrowed.

A moment of passion.

He dared. He truly dared.

The implication settled in his chest like a brand pressed to flesh.

Roman Ravenwood, the brute pretending to be a gentleman, had just suggested, before the entire court, that he had been intimate with Violet. That he had touched her in passion. And not only that—but that in doing so, he had struck her.

A wave of cold fury surged through Calbert’s veins. It was not the hot-blooded rage of a fool, but the slow, rising burn of a man who knew exactly what this meant. If Alexander knew, Violet must have spoken of it. She must have trusted someone enough to reveal that pain. And after all she had been through—and Roman had the audacity to laugh.

Here was Roman—having just insinuated a moment of drunken, violent intimacy with his daughter—casually segueing into courtly maneuvering, smiling. He moved from impropriety to political parable in a breath, as though discussing the weather. His tone took on a mock-thoughtfulness, his gaze wandering with leisurely cruelty from Violet to Mina and back, like he was sampling options.

It was not merely offensive. It was calculated.

Roman had taken that sickening implication—that he had been with Violet in a moment of passion, and struck her—and used it. Weaponized it in front of the entire court. And now he was engaging in social chess as if the board were not Calbert’s daughter's dignity.

And that smile—so smug, so damnably entertained—was the final insult.

“Lord Ravenwood.” Calbert greeted him. “I have long understood that it is the mark of a certain type of man to smile while his house is burning… but rarely have I seen one so eager to light the match himself.”

He set down his fork. No clatter. Just a soft, deliberate click.

He paused—not to gather his thoughts, but to allow the court to breathe in the silence, to feel it tighten.

“You have just informed a room full of royals and dignitaries,” he continued, “that my daughter, Lady Violet Damien, was struck by you... And—how did you phrase it? Ah, yes—‘gentle caress out of passion.’”

His eyes narrowed, the faintest crease at the edge of his mouth betraying the disgust barely held at bay. “How fortunate for you, then, that the only thing blunter than your affections appears to be your wit.”

There was a pause as he leaned on the table with a cold smile that never reached his eyes.

“Let us speak plainly, since you seem to enjoy insinuation masked as jest.” Calbert leaned forward slightly, as though sharing a confidence across the table. “If what you imply is true—that while inebriated, you laid a hand upon my daughter in a passionate moment—then you have committed not only an act of violence, but of staggering disrespect to announce to declare it before this court. If it is not true, and this is merely the shadowplay of a man clawing for leverage… then I must ask why you are all content to let the public humiliation of my daughter pass as supper entertainment.”He let the words sink like teeth into the room.

Then, he turned his head, only slightly, toward Violet, seated beside him. His gaze softened, his voice lowering just enough that only she could hear it. “My darling,” he murmured, the gentleness in stark contrast to the storm he had just conjured, “you owe no one here an explanation. Not him. Not this court. If you would like me to handle this, I will. If you would like to speak further, you need not look for permission. Only know…” His hand brushed gently against hers. “…I will stand at your side, no matter what.”

He straightened once more, the quiet thunder returning to his voice as he addressed the room.
“I'm sure you all understand. I will not allow anyone to lay a hand on my daughter without consequence.”

Count Damien smiled then at them all. A pleasant yet terrifying thing.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: Castle Dining Hall
Attire: Dress, Amulet
Interaction: @Apex Sunburn Sjandehk @Oso Cassius @FunnyGuy Lorenzo
Mention: @Tae Kalliope

---

The wine no longer looked like wine.

Charlotte's hand still clutched the stem of the glass, her fingers numb from how tightly she held it, but she didn’t dare let go. It was changing. Red turned to blackened garnet, and then, beneath it, an unnatural hue surfaced...A pale, sickly blue. Like ice. A sudden cold settled in her lungs like frost creeping through cracks in stone. It filled her bones. Her skull. It was the kind of cold that didn’t touch the skin but dug deep and stayed.

And worst of all, it was somehow familiar.

A voice barked near her ear—loud, close, furious: “Stop thrashing!”

She flinched hard, her heart slamming against her ribs, and her head jerked up. Panic rushed to her eyes and she found herself meeting the gaze of Lorenzo, who was looking at her with concern. “Lottie, would you prefer white, instead?”

Charlotte blinked and quickly summoned a smile that was perhaps a touch too polished to be real.“Oh—no, thank you. Truly, I’m quite all right.” Her tone was lilting and wrapped in her usual warmth. Her fingertips grazed the stem of her wineglass with graceful indifference, as if it hadn’t nearly slipped from her trembling hand moments before. She then averted her gaze, and that was certainly a mistake.

Because as her gaze shifted across the table, it collided directly with Alexander Deacon’s. He was already looking at her with a smile from the underworld itself. It stretched too wide, too slow, as though it had been peeled across his face rather than formed by genuine expression. The corners of his mouth didn’t stop where they should have—they climbed a little too high, just enough to make her stomach turn.

And his cold eyes didn’t match the expression at all. They gleamed with a dark, unspoken satisfaction, like he knew something she didn’t. Like he had already won, and was simply waiting for her to realize it.

Charlotte’s breath caught. She tore her gaze away, her brows knitting ever so slightly, as if the gesture alone might hold her together.

“...I’m just dandy.”

The words slipped from her lips before she could stop them. Lorenzo hadn’t even asked how she had been doing.

Has Deacon done something to me? The thought came unbidden, quick and sharp as glass. No—I have to stop letting this get to me. Whatever this is… It’s not real.

Her smile faltered slightly, the edges softening into something sadder. If I keep slipping like this... I'm going to be the one embarrassing him this time.

Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. Though the contact was gentle, Charlotte had flinched in her seat and gripped the sides of the chair. She glanced over her shoulder nonetheless, with eyes that shimmered with the weight of her fear, reddened just slightly at the rims.

“Hello, good evening. You are Charlotte, yes? I am Sjan-dehk. We have met before. Sorry to surprise you, but you look…” He trailed off before continuing, “Not very good.” Charlotte’s expression faltered, her lips parting in surprise, but before she could reply, he stumbled over himself to amend the statement. “Sorry. You do look good, in the pretty way. What I mean is, you do not look well. You are…Are you okay?...You drink too much? ...You need…I mean, do you need water or something? Or to go some other place to rest?”

“You’re not dying. You just need to lie still.” The voice was softer than Sjan-dehk’s, and it did not belong to this room, to this moment.

Charlotte hesitated, her smile frozen at the corners, and then she seemed to suddenly animate again, "Ah, hello! I remember you Sjandehk. Last we met, I believe, was over a rather impassioned discussion with cheese." Her eyes sparkled faintly, as though she meant to jest, though there was a touch of weariness behind the warmth. “You're very kind to worry, but I assure you, I’m quite alright. Just a touch lightheaded, nothing more.” She paused then, her expression softening with quiet gratitude, a warmth blooming behind her eyes. There had truly not been many in Caesonia who would have gently checked up on her in such a gentle manner. After a beat, her mind wandered back to when he had also defended her at the beach, and she found herself admiring his consistent thoughtfulness.

With the kind of tender care a grandmother might offer while taking a child’s hand for reassurance, Charlotte reached up and enclosed his hand in both of hers. She offered a small, sincere squeeze as she added, “But truly, it’s very thoughtful of you to check on me.” Her smile lingered, gentle, though her hands retreated and her fingers moved underneath the table to tightly wind themselves in her skirts. “You came all the way from Viserjanta, yes? Tell me—how have you liked it here so far, and what have you gotten up to?”

Sjandehk's company was comforting at the least. Yet despite all the strange things she had been seeing and hearing, her mind was most haunted by the incessant presence of his name. She had made it a few moments now, thanks to the supernatural mishaps, without glancing his way. Charlotte had even told herself it didn’t matter. That she had made peace with it. But strength was slipping through her fingers like water, and in the quiet of waiting for Sjan-dehk’s answer, she let herself turn her gaze.

It was meant to be brief.

But the moment her eyes found Cassius across the room, she couldn't tear her gaze away. He was leaning against a stone column beside Kalliope, their bodies close enough that someone might assume it was flirtation. Kalliope’s posture was easy, a smile ghosting across her lips as she looked up at him. Cassius had one hand braced above her on the wall, his head tipped low as if whispering something only meant for her. From where Charlotte sat, they could have been any beautiful pair in any ballroom across Caesonia.

And then, he looked right at her.

Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat, the world felt unbearably still.

He didn’t smile. Neither did she.

Then, just as quickly, he turned back to Kalliope, offering her a hand.

Charlotte felt something tighten in her chest, a quiet ache that settled beneath her collarbone. She lowered her gaze, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks, and folded her hands in her lap to still their trembling. All she could do was try to make herself hope he would go sit somewhere else with her.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 6pm
Location: The Castle Dining Hall
Interactions: @Potter Kira @Lava Alckon Farim @Rodiak Nahir @Helo Rohit
Mentions: @Tae Kalliope @Apex Sunburn Sjandehk @Oso Cassius/Milo @CitrusArms Stratya
Attire:Dress, Hair

---

Anastasia’s eyes lit up as Rohit raised his glass in perfect sync with hers, a laugh bubbling up from her lips like champagne. “Oh Rohit, I knew you’d get me!” she chirped, leaning in with affection dancing openly across her face. “And you’re so right. I love everything about the Alidasht. Like, for one?” Her tone shifted to conspiratorial delight, “Sitting here with all of you is like eating candy with my eyeballs. It’s got me feeling a certain kind of way.”

She gave an exaggerated shimmy of her shoulders as if shaking off the excitement, then giggled and dramatically downed another glass of Gods-knew-what.

As Rohit had continued, she gasped. “A party for the poor!” Anastasia repeated with rising excitement, practically bouncing in her seat. “That’s brilliant! You made it sound like the kind of celebration I’d sneak into even if I weren’t invited.”

“A party for the poor....What a… lovely idea.”

"Right, Nahir!? For real!" Reaching out with a grin, she gave Rohit’s arm a playful tap with her fingertips.“You're literally the smartest person I've met today. And I am absolutely stealing that idea—and if you don’t come help me host it, I swear I’ll pee on the floor right here and now.”

She gave a tiny mock-scowl, lips twitching as she tried (and failed) to keep a straight face. However she ended up smiling again nonetheless as she added more seriously. “Publicity or not, if we make even one person feel special… then we’re doing something right.”

With a soft clink of glass, she raised hers once more in his honor, her voice full of warmth.
“I want it to be the most fun day they’ve ever had!”

Then, from beside her came Farim’s familiar, soothing voice. “Your generosity knows no bounds, Princess. I do agree that it sounds like an enjoyable little adventure to give back to those that give the land and country so much.”

Her gaze flitted to him with a beaming smile, cheeks flushed with excitement and just a hint of intoxication.
“Right, Farim? I can’t believe no one’s done it before. We have so many parties—boring ones at that—and we never bring the party over there!”

She gave a little sigh as if the absurdity of that fact weighed on her, then reached for another sip—and paused mid-motion as Kira’s silken voice slinked into her ears: “...Say the word and you can receive whatever performance of your wish.”

Anastasia froze. Her brows rose with delicious intrigue as she slowly turned her head toward Kira, an amused and thoroughly entertained smile spreading across her lips.

“Oooh, my little vixen?” she purred, her voice dipping into a sultry velvet. She leaned in closer, the candlelight catching the mischief glittering in her eyes.“You should be more careful saying such tantalizing things in a princess’s ear…” She let her voice drop even lower.“And worse still… keeping me curious.”

Her gaze swept over Kira, slow and languid, lips parted just slightly as she tilted her head.
“So tell me, Kira…” she whispered, lashes fluttering ever so subtly, “what kind of performance would you want to give me?”

And then—“We do not give the poor illusions of grandeur... We give them order. Stability... Fear. And in return, they serve the empire. Not dance beneath its gates as if they were kings.”

Anastasia’s expression soured instantly. The flirtation evaporated from her eyes and she grimaced, her gaze sliding to the Grand Vizier with unmasked judgment.

“Do not mistake charity for policy. Nor applause for loyalty... But by all means… plan your feast. Let them twirl in borrowed joy. And when the food runs out… Let us see if they still appreciate it.”

She stared at him deadpan, her eyes slowly blinking as if struggling to comprehend whether she had actually heard him correctly… or if her drink had just cursed her with hallucinations.

The corner of her mouth twitched, and then—like a wine cork popping—she let out a single, incredulous laugh.
She leaned subtly toward Farim, her tone feathery and mock-hushed.

“My Gods, your father sounds dreadfully boring.”

Then she turned toward Hafiz more directly, her head tilting just so, a glint of boldness shining behind her smile. “Tell me, Grand Vizier,” she began sweetly, “have you ever actually been invited to a party… or do you just stand outside of them brooding about how people are enjoying themselves too much?” Perhaps lucky enough for the princess, Hafiz's attention was hyper-focused on something across the room.

Annoyed, he hadn't heard her, she followed his gaze to find Cassius had Milo St.Claire pinned against the wall. She rose up, immediately with furrowed brows, with concern for her friend, then her gaze shifted to the sight of Kalliope on the floor on top of that guy with the boat from the tavern. Captain Sjandehk. She nodded her appreciation of the sight, impressed that Kalliope was getting it on with a Captain. And even better, Kalliope went over to help Cassius. All seemed well in the world once again.

"This is why a bastard will never rise to match one born from dignified blood.”
Anastasia's expression ran cold, and a slow blink followed, her gaze flickering toward the source of the comment, but she said nothing for now. Not yet.

"Good prevails once again." Anastasia mused under her breath as she sat back down and looked at Kira, who had started up talking again. She immediately gave two thumbs up as she beamed at her. "Yeeessss Kiki. Let's bring all the cultures, all the foods, all the languages! Let's spoil them! And I can probably get my girl Captain Stratya to bake with me again." She clasped her hands together with a smile at the thought of her beloved Stratya. And at that moment, Farim seemed to love the idea too, and she returned the knuckle squeeze, grinning excitedly at him.

Farim’s voice danced then beside her ear like a well-aged promise:"I am even willing to part with some coin in order to get this event … how you say … on its legs? On the one condition that I get to hear more of that beautiful cello performance from you, Anastasia.”

Anastasia turned to him with a raised brow, her grin curling wickedly at the edges. “Yes, sir,” she cooed, eyes gleaming. “You help me get this event on its legs and I’ll throw in a private performance just for you...”

For the briefest moment, she held his gaze like it was a dare—then her cheeks puffed full with stifled laughter. Leaning in closer, she dropped her voice to a whisper, barely keeping it together:
“And then you can get me off my legs, if you know what I’m saying…”
She paused just long enough for tension to hang—“Open ‘em for business.”

That was it. The dam burst. Anastasia erupted into a fit of loud laughter that drew eyes from those nearby, her shoulders shaking as she doubled over slightly in her seat.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Location: Castle Dining Hall
Interactions: @Lava Alckon Farim @Rodiak Nahir @Potter Kira @Helo Rohit @Apex Sunburn Sjan-dehk @Tae Kalliope @Oso Cassius

---

The Grand Vizier’s hands were calmly folded before him, elbows resting against the arms of his chair, goblet untouched beside him. His gaze, steady and unreadable, remained fixed on the tapestry across the hall.

Yet his ears, ever tuned to absurdity, had not missed a single word.

A party for the poor.

Still, Hafiz said nothing at first as they all indulged in the ridiculous idea. He merely breathed—slowly, deeply—as if weighing something heavy in the hollows of his chest. The flickering candlelight made his features appear more carved than alive, the sharp line of his jaw set with a patience that was far more menacing than any flash of anger.

Hafiz didn’t turn to look at Nahir as she spoke—he didn’t need to. Her words curled around him like the smoke of a familiar flame. Leftovers? Second place? The girl had learned well.

He smiled faintly, a gesture devoid of warmth. “Ah, Nahir… fortunate indeed you’ve never known what it is to want and lose. That lesson comes for us all. Eventually.”

She was sharp, yes, but her tongue was beginning to gleam with edge. Too sharp for a tool. Sharp like something he might one day need to dull. Nahir was still his blood. Still a lioness from his den... But she was circling. And lions that forget their place often found themselves in cages.

Nahir played her part with Anastasia and addressed Rohit’s foolish suggestion with grace. Meanwhile, Farim's enthusiasm burned bright—too bright. It was charming in the way fireworks were—dazzling, impulsive, and utterly prone to self-destruction. Clutching Anastasia’s hand like a prize, speaking of coin and charity in the same breath as diplomacy… Hmph.

And Kira. Hafiz’s eyes lingered on her just a moment longer. She was eager and open... So pleased to be heard. So confident that her presence at this table was earned and not permitted.

Enthusiasm was lovely—like kindling. It crackled, danced, and snapped with life. And if stoked without care?

“You speak of spectacle as if it feeds the soul,” Hafiz spoke up finally, tone polite yet almost indulgent. “But does it fill the belly a week from now? A month? Will your music echo in their stomachs when winter comes?”

There was a faint, cold smile on his lips.

“We do not give the poor illusions of grandeur,” Hafiz continued softly, as if explaining to a child. “We give them order. Stability... Fear. And in return, they serve the empire. Not dance beneath its gates as if they were kings.”

His fingers tapped once on the goblet. “Do not mistake charity for policy. Nor applause for loyalty.”

Then, with the barest curve of his lips, mockery masquerading as amusement—he added,
“But by all means… plan your feast. Let them twirl in borrowed joy. And when the food runs out…” His eyes narrowed. “Let us see if they still appreciate it."

And with that, Hafiz turned his gaze away and focused on the sight of Cassius Damien slamming a man into a pillar. He didn't so much as twitch. But beneath his careful grip, the stem of his goblet cracked, ever so slightly. It certainly caught his attention enough to momentarily turn down the volume of the lot of them's incessant noise.

It was not the violence itself that offended him. It was the brazen impropriety...The audacity to do such a thing here, in the presence of royalty. At a royal banquet, among the king and queen!?

If this had occurred in the halls of the Genasea palace, a man who raised his voice before royalty lost his tongue. A man who dared raise a hand within palace walls was relieved of it.

Hafiz kept his gaze fixed ahead. There had been no formal duel declared, no permission granted by the court, no dignified escort to the courtyard.

“This is why a bastard will never rise to match one born from dignified blood,” Hafiz muttered icily, his voice edged with venomous contempt.

Utterly still, Hafiz Kadir sat like a serpent coiled in the shadows, his gaze fixing unblinkingly upon on the girl he'd been waiting for, now entering the banquet hall carried in the arms of her savior. The untouched wine in his goblet lay forgotten, dark as blood, as his fingertips tapped out a slow, rhythmic pulse against the glass.

His eyes narrowed, tracing every desperate movement of her hands as they clung to the man named Sjan-dehk. The audacity of this arrogant fool, presuming to hold what rightfully belonged to him. The thought twisted within Hafiz’s chest, sharp as a blade, igniting a jealousy that seared through him like molten iron.

He observed her closely, the tremor in her limbs as she was carried like a wounded bird, the subtle twitch in her jaw when she spotted Hala, and finally, the humiliating fall. Hafiz’s lips twitched slightly, the faintest shadow of cruel amusement flickering over his cold features.

His brow lifted disdainfully as Kalliope scrambled off the man’s lap, cheeks flushed with shame and dignity in tatters. The spectacle was vulgar, disgraceful. A woman who has defiled her honor once shall never reclaim her purity.

Such indecency would never have been tolerated in Alidasht. A woman flailing desperately in a man's embrace like a common tavern wench? A man submitting to the commands of a hysterical woman like a pet obeying its mistress?

But this was Caesonia, a land bereft of discipline and order.

Hafiz’s gaze never wavered from Kalliope, trailing her movements like an invisible tether. Every time she reached for the man, each trembling finger that clutched at him as though he were her lifeline, it stirred something deep within Hafiz—not mere anger, but something far darker, older, and colder.

Ownership.

She remained fractured, seeking safety in the arms of strangers when she knew perfectly well to whom she truly belonged. Hadn't he trained her better?

Slowly, Hafiz’s gaze moved to fix upon Sjan-dehk. A cold, calculating darkness flickered within his eyes, promising horrors unspeakable.

What will you do when I take her again?

His imagination stirred with cruelty, envisioning in slow, meticulous detail how he would unravel her again—each touch, each whispered cruelty, every scar he’d so painstakingly carved into her body and soul. They were not merely wounds; they were seeds of control, now ready to bloom and choke her once more. The very moment she faltered, she would flee back into familiar darkness, into his waiting grasp, without him even lifting a finger.

And yet, that stubborn defiance in her, that tiny spark daring to seek warmth and hope elsewhere—he would snuff it out utterly, ensuring that this time, she would never dare seek comfort in another again.

She was unraveling after all. He glanced calmly toward the royal couple seated nearby, noting their exchanged whispers and veiled glances. They, too, were witnessing her unraveling. It was satisfying to know her humiliation wasn't private, but displayed openly for all to judge.

And the man at her side, he was nothing more than a loose thread in her fragile tapestry, easily pulled and torn at Hafiz’s convenience. A pawn whose removal would be as effortless as cutting a stray thread.

Then his gaze shifted smoothly toward Cassius Damien, precisely as Kalliope’s own eyes found him. Hafiz's attention sharpened, eyes narrowing slightly in twisted intrigue.

Oh, interesting...

She was still reaching out, grasping desperately for yet another wounded creature—another man who radiated defiance and violence, a mirror of her own brokenness.

Two of them now.

Finally, Hafiz lifted the goblet to his lips, savoring the rich sweetness of the wine. It tasted of triumph and inevitable conquest. He smirked softly into his drink, savoring the moment.

They can’t replace me, my Asirati. Run to as many men as you wish; none of them will ever erase me. You'll always return, crawling back to where you truly belong.

His smirk deepened into something darker—a shadowed snarl hidden beneath layers of elegance. Hafiz envisioned the destruction he'd deliver upon their worlds: Cassius’s reputation systematically shredded until every step was agony, scorned and isolated; Sjan-dehk gutted and bleeding out, the girl accompanying him reduced to screams and helpless tears. Hafiz would strip away everything these men held dear, piece by agonizing piece, until all that remained was bitter, hopeless regret for ever daring to touch what belonged solely and eternally to him.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

🌸 Race: Half-Elf 🌸
🦋 Class: Druidic Mystic 🦋
🍄 Location: The Bathroom🍄
🍃 Interactions: Meiyu @Tae Talis/Liana @Oso 🍃
🌼 Equipment: 🌼

Full Equipment List

✦ Druidic Staff
✦ Stone-Carved Dagger
✦ Poison-Tipped Blowgun Darts
✦ Her amulet
✦ Satchel
✦ Flint & dried tinder moss
✦ Waterskin
✦ Dried Medicinal Herbs
✦ Bag of pretty trinkets, marbles and rocks
✦ Sharpening river stone
✦ Oruna tribal moon bracelet

🪷 Attire: Outfit 🪷

Attire

✦ Antler Headdress – Elegant branching antlers wrapped in vines and blooming wild roses and other flowers, dangling with purple crystal teardrops.
✦ Thick Magenta Hair – Flowing in long, heavy waves with many braids, tiny beads and blossoms braided throughout.
✦ Forest Bralette – A natural fabric top adorned with layered leaves, hide, flowers, and shimmering gem accents across the bust.
✦ Arm Jewelry – Vine-wrapped armlets and bracelets studded with glistening stones in violet and turquoise hues.
✦ Green Cloaklet – A light green cloak clasped with a gem like amber—crafted from flora and fauna
✦ Layered Skirt – Flowing petal-draped skirt with high side slits, woven from cloth and flower petals
✦ Waist Adornments – A golden vine belt holding a satchels, feathers, and a charm pouch of herbs and trinkets.
✦ Leg Jewelry – Beaded anklets and thigh cords with gemstone charms
✦ Nature Tattoos & Paint – Faint tribal markings or nature-inspired body paint peek beneath her outfit

🪞 Gold Balance: 33 🪞
🌸 Injuries: Faint Scrapes on Shins & Knees 🌸

Phia blinked at her sudden laughter, head tilting as if she were listening for rain. She hadn't been trying to be funny. Her brows drew together faintly, confusion flickering behind her amber eyes.

“You know… I truly admire conviction,” The hooded woman's words sliced through the moment, sharp enough to pull Phia’s unwavering attention. “So few people in this world still know what it means to stand for something. Even fewer are willing to bleed for it.”

She responded with a single, deliberate step forward, just enough to remind them that she was still between them and Talis. Her grip tightened on her staff, not in fear, but in quiet readiness as she listened to the black-haired woman speak. Though her focus had stayed intently on Liana, it had been Meiyu’s strange, possessive claim that made her expression darken. “She’s not yours,” Her voice had been quiet, yet it had been with the steadiness of someone who meant every syllable.

In the next moments, the cloaked woman’s reverent tone and the way her eyes had moved between them made the fine hairs at the nape of her neck rise in primal warning. This was not merely a threat. It was a farewell.

Phia didn’t tense; she simply stilled, coiled energy gathering in the depths of her muscles. Her pulse quickened sharply. With a subtle shift of her heel, she planted herself, grounding and aligning her stance. The blossoms adorning her staff pulsed softly, echoing her readiness. And as Liana whispered her final words, Phia had already started moving.

“It really is a shame...that I might have to kill such very pretty girls.”

Phia had seen predators before. And she had trained her whole life not to wait for them to strike. Her staff angled downward in an arc, her body turning as she stepped off the centerline. She pivoted on the ball of her foot as she dropped low, and her weight shifted with controlled focus. She aimed for Liana's lead leg, with an attempt to collapse her stance. Simultaneously, her upper body twisted, staff lifting with intent to trap the hooded woman's hand mid-motion.

She would strike, disable, and close the space between the enemy and the stall.

But she never got the chance as a shockwave suddenly slammed through the floor beneath them.

Phia’s breath seized in her chest and her balance faltered as a sound like a god tearing through metal ripped through her ears. It wasn’t just heard; it was felt, vibrating up through the soles of her feet, into her knees, into her spine. In the instant the floor lurched and the world roared beneath her, Phia saw it: the blur of incoming motion and silver, the glint of the dagger racing straight for her chest.

With a surge of reflex, she shifted as her instincts took over. Her staff dipped, but her body turned toward the strike. Her forearm snapped up across her chest in a rapid motion, intercepting the dagger's path. The blade plunged deep into her flesh, embedding itself with a visceral, gut-wrenching sound that made her pupils dilate.

Pain erupted instantly, searing hot and merciless, spreading like wildfire through her veins. Yet Phia did not retreat nor did she stagger.

She had never felt pain like this. Phia's life had been relatively comfortable, cushioned by the quiet strength of Menzai’s presence, by the safety of trees she could always climb. She had fought, yes, but never like this, and this time Menzai wasn't here. Something in her mind screamed and something else, deeper, older, listened.

Her eyes snapped upward, pupils wide and wild, locking onto the cloaked woman with an intensity forged in pain and fury.

A raw, feral scream burst from her throat that carried a blend of her agony and her fury as she ripped the dagger free from her arm. Blood splattered violently across the floor and cascaded down her wrist, pooling between her clenched fingers. Her eyes blazed despite the tears brimming inside them, incandescent with wrath and unbreakable determination. Phia immediately lunged forward erratically, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat, embodying the terrifying resolve of a wounded animal refusing to succumb. Her movements grew erratic yet deadly precise as she drove her staff toward Liana, striking at her repeatedly with rapid, relentless force.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

@Samreaper Menzai @FunnyGuy Wendel @Potter Arya @Oso Bastion

It starts softly, deceptively.

A deep, resonant thrum vibrates through the wooden planks beneath your feet, reverberating in bones and sinews. Glasses shudder, sending ripples across drinks; bottles behind the curve of the bar clink nervously against each other. Conversations trail into silence.

Then—

BOOM.

An explosive blast of sound and blinding light erupts from the depths of the airship, as though ancient gods themselves had unleashed their wrath within the Stormrider's belly.

The entire vessel heaves violently.

Timbers groan under sudden strain; ropes and rigging creak ominously as they stretch taut. Lanterns swing erratically, casting chaotic patterns of shadow and light across startled faces. Several patrons lose their footing, stumbling or falling as a ceramic plate shatters sharply against the deck. High above, the balloon enveloping the ship moans in protest, its elemental binding ring sputtering briefly with a troubling flicker.

And then—a breathless, awful stillness.

Smoke slithers upward, emerging from the stairwell in sinuous, black coils that seem to have a life of their own. It whispers and twists around patrons' ankles, drawing gasps and shudders as it climbs.

From within this unnatural fog, they emerge.

Eight figures materialize, cloaked in crimson hoods pulled low over faces hidden behind smooth, featureless masks. Their armor gleams darkly, reflecting the muted glow of swaying lanterns. Each step they take feels unnaturally graceful... Silent as if the deck itself moves aside respectfully in their path.

At first, the crowd is frozen in shock, lungs held tight, hearts suspended mid-beat.

Then a shrill scream pierces the quiet, shattering the spell.

Chaos unfurls in an instant. Patrons scatter in blind panic; someone bolts toward the stairs leading to the upper deck. He barely makes three strides before one of the hooded intruders moves. Steel flashes as he plunges mercilessly into the fleeing man's abdomen.

The runner collapses after a silence, a broken puppet with severed strings.

Terror explodes. Chairs topple violently as patrons surge in panic, spilling drinks and overturning tables in their desperation to escape.

The Stormrider is no longer merely sailing the skies.

It is under siege.

What will you do?

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: Castle Dining Hall
Attire: Dress, Amulet
Interaction: @Tae Thea @Helo Leo

---

Charlotte blinked in surprise as Leo’s arm gently wrapped around her shoulders. Without hesitation, she leaned into the warmth and offered him a brief, full-on genuine embrace.“Thank you, Leo… Don't worry, I'm okay.” Her gaze followed the direction of his gesture as he pointed toward Lorenzo and Fritz, and she gave a small nod, the usual practiced smile blooming on her lips, as if that single moment of acknowledgment could chase away the storm still quietly churning inside her.

“Oh, absolutely. Thea and I had a wonderful talk over breakfast. She knows everything. And she’s willing to help as well.” Charlotte's gaze snapped to Thea, and it felt as if her heart had twisted. A sharp pang of worry gripped her chest. The thought of her being drawn into this darkness made Charlotte’s stomach churn. She understood why Leo had confided in his sister, especially after what he’d endured; of course he'd seek her support.

Yet... It felt in that moment as if she had poisoned another person she cared about.

“Doesn’t matter who else is here tonight, you’re surrounded by allies. Everything will be alright.”

Charlotte nodded, lips twitching into something that might’ve been a smile, but the light didn’t quite reach her eyes. She wanted to believe him. She truly did.

But a strange heaviness had settled over her, as if the room had suddenly grown colder. She could have sworn she had seen the lights flicker, or maybe her eyes had.

Her gaze grew unfocused as her thoughts blurred, but then Victoria's voice drew Charlotte’s attention. Her words were laced with scorn as they cut through the ambient hum of the banquet. Charlotte’s fingers curled tightly around the fabric of her gown as she listened to the onslaught.

It was an all-too-familiar rhythm—cruelty veiled in jest, judgment hidden behind carefully chosen words. Charlotte knew this tone. It was the one so often used about her and Lorenzo in hushed corners and whispered halls. Hearing it now, even when it was directed at someone else, made her stomach twist with unease.

“She looked like she’d climb the nearest chandelier if it meant someone else’s husband would look up her skirt.”

Charlotte winced, her expression faltering as if the words had struck her directly. She was ever so certain that Victoria did not know even the slightest about Kalliope, even if Charlotte herself did not either.

If we expect men to take women more seriously… Then we, as women, must stop degrading each other.

Perhaps if Charlotte hadn't felt as weary, she would have been first to speak up, but Thea had acted with more haste anyhow.

“Duchess Victoria, I must say, it’s refreshing to hear your thoughts aloud. Most people wait until they’re alone to sound so terribly insecure... You speak of dancers and desperation, yet I imagine it takes a truly gifted performer to balance so many masks at once. Jealousy disguised as concern, bitterness as etiquette, and of course, judgment wrapped in lace.”

She had always thought many had underestimated Thea simply because of how she struggled the last year. But Charlotte had seen the strength beneath Thea’s softness. And as Thea spoke now, poised, articulate, unflinching, Charlotte felt a flicker of pride stir in her chest. The way she stood up to that bully of a woman… It may not have been the most "proper" way to handle things, but what was etiquette worth if it meant letting people like Victoria say as they pleased? A faint smile began to tug at her lips.

“Though I do envy your confidence. It must take a certain kind of self-assurance to confuse a woman’s boldness with her worth, or a fall with a failure. Besides why bother acting as if Kalliope is the whore of Caesonia when Charlotte's right here?”

Charlotte's brows furrowed and her spine stiffened, as if her body had registered the blow before her mind could catch up.

Surely… she had heard wrong.

She had to have heard wrong.

Thea then turned to Leo, “Perhaps she should start with a mirror before auditioning for a spotlight. ” And with that, Thea reclined, and Charlotte could have sworn she saw it. The glint in Thea’s eyes. The ghost of a smirk.

“The line between passion and scandal is thin. It takes wisdom and experience to know where that line lies....And when it comes to Lottie, she is firmly rooted in scandal.”

It hadn't made sense, but oh, how it had hurt. Was she tired? Was her head playing tricks?

Or... Or did they actually dislike her?

Maybe it would have been easier to discern if she hadn't felt crushed by such an overwhelming sense of dread.

Nonetheless, it wasn't like Charlotte had a plethora of friends after all. Even though Thea and Leo had been far away in Varian, they had been her only lifelong friends. As Leo went on to casually regale the tale of Kalliope at the Royal Curd, she found herself pinching at her wrist hard to see if perhaps she was asleep, but alas, she was not.

As the conversation faded into the background, a cold sensation traced around her ankle beneath the table. It felt like fingers, and she jolted. Though her reaction had been quiet, her movement barely noticeable to anyone else... When she glanced up, it felt as though the entire world had stopped to look.

Every passing giggle twisted in her ears, warped into something cruel and deliberate.

Her gaze locked onto Duchess Victoria, whose eyes were sweeping her from head to toe with a look so disdainful, so palpably amused, that it made Charlotte feel as if her very existence was offensive.

Like she was a stain on the fabric of the room.

Her fingers drifted to her neck, rubbing anxiously at the skin that now felt too warm, too exposed. Her throat tightened, and her heart began to race so violently she feared she might collapse.

“...Insanity. Clearly, you're not right in the head. Deranged even. ” Charlotte's gaze had shifted to meet Leo's eyes as he addressed her. Then, as if nothing had happened, his attention returned to Duchess Victoria, but the rest of his words became a wash of garbled sound, like voices underwater.

Charlotte staggered a half-step back from the table as her balance tilted.

"I'm... I'm so sorry."

The words were small. Too small. They slipped from her lips like petals torn from a dying flower, whispered more to herself than to anyone else. They probably hadn't heard her as she hurried away back to her seat at the other table.

She reached immediately for her wine glass, her trembling fingers curling around its stem like it might anchor her to something real.

But she didn’t drink it. Instead, she stared down at the ruby liquid as it shimmered in the candlelight.

Her reflection stared back in distorted ripples, eyes wide and unblinking.

And then the thought came.

What if it’s poisoned?