princess

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: The Castle Dining Hall
Interactions:@Lava Alckon Farim @Silverpaw Wulfric
Mentions: @Helo Callum @Oso Cassius
Attire:Dress, Hair

---

“If you bully my sweet little brother again—THEN I WILL NOT BE YOUR FRIEND ANYMORE!”

”That will teach him - friendship status with a princess like yourself is a rather huge deal, no?”

Anastasia paused, eyes narrowing with a pout that could rival a stormcloud. “Exactly! Not because I'm a princess—just a cutie like me.” She shook her head. “Tragic.”

Farim gently tugged at Anastasia’s sleeve with a friendly grin. ”Perhaps he is having issues at home and this is the cause of his outburst? It is written plain as day along his face the man seems to be going through some things. But may I also share something with you?”

She was thoughtful for a moment, then she smiled and agreed. “Perhaps. She sighed, shoulders dropping. “I probably won't remember that happening in an hour anyway. Hope he feels better then.”

Then she leaned in a little, curious despite herself. “Okay, what? What are you gonna share? Is it juicy? Is it scandalous?” Her eyes sparkled.

”I do not know how to say this properly - but whatever it is that is standing there, it does not appear to be your brother. His flesh, yes. His clothes, yes. Even his face, yes. But there is something sinister about his demeanor - call it a hunch but I would like your opinion on this. Is that really your brother? You may answer later, I shall cover this with another question to make everyone less….suspicious?”

Anastasia's brows knit together as she took that in, her heart fluttering as she eyed her younger brother. Why wouldn't that be my brother? Oh... Is he talking about magic? Callum did show me his magic... Maybe something went wrong.

Her gaze lingered on Callum, her fingers tightening around the edge of her sleeve. “You’re not wrong. He’s... different tonight.”

”Sorry - such gruesome details of Alidasht court are not my favorite thing to discuss. But now that you know how we have typically handled such outbursts in the past. How is it your royalty deals with such moments? Aside from the Queen brandishing blade and threat - will there be more to come of this or shall this be swept under the rug?”

She scrunched her nose. “Mmm… Well, mother usually pushes father to do something if things get really bad. But honestly?” She lowered her voice a bit, glancing around. “He only steps in when it personally annoys him. So unless someone throws wine at his face, it’s usually just... ignored.”

She paused, then added with a slight shrug, “I guess we’re more of a ‘sweep it under the royal rug and pretend it’s fine’ kind of family.”

Anastasia’s brows furrowed deeper as she continued watching Callum. Her lips parted like she was about to say something, but the words caught in her throat. Suddenly, she rose up. “I just gotta go talk to him—he’s my baby brother, Farim.” Her voice came out soft, teetering between tipsy and achingly sincere. “Even if he’s all grown and tall and moody now. He used to fall asleep with jam on his cheeks.”

She moved to step forward, instinctively reaching for him—only to pause. Her heart gave a soft, confused thud. Callum was leaving! She hadn’t even seen when he got up, but there he went, fading out of the room like smoke through fingers. Her hand lingered in the air, reaching for someone no longer there.

“...Fuck, he left.”

A few seconds passed before she straightened with a breath and turned toward Farim. “Okay. Plan B. I’m going to talk to Wulfric.” She gave him a half-smile. “You can come if you want. Wulfy always knows what to do, and it's fun when he pretends he’s not happy to see me.”

She didn’t wait for confirmation, and Anastasia then made her way across the room and quietly slid into the chair beside Wulfric—the seat Callum had been in before.

She tilted her head toward her eldest brother, her smile small but genuine.

“Hi, Wulfy,” she greeted. “How are you doing over here?”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: 6pm
Location: The Castle Dining Hall
Interaction/Mention: @Tpartywithzombi Violet @ReusableSword Roman @Silverpaw Wulfric @FunnyGuy Alexander/Lorenzo @Helo Callum @Oso Cassius @Tae Mina

---

“That is as ludicrous an argument as claiming Anastasia's flair for dramatics is a cunning tactic”, Wulfric countered quietly.

Alibeth paused mid-sip. Her lashes lowered, then slowly rose as she turned to regard her son fully. Her face was still, but the corner of her mouth drew ever so slightly downward. As Wulfric turned his attention back to the conversation, Alibeth’s eyes drifted quietly across the hall—landing on Kalliope. The woman was not watching them, not focused on the words volleyed like blades across the table. Her eyes were elsewhere.

“...I see your point. Too genuine to be a mere strategy. ” She looked once more at Kalliope, something more calculated in her expression now. “We will need to speak with her about her priorities if we are to keep her employed with us.”

However, other matters were of more importance. Alibeth’s gaze swept the room with deliberate ease. Yet beneath that surface stillness, her thoughts moved swiftly. She found herself increasingly curious—concerned, even—about what precisely was unfolding with both Ravenwood and Callum. Though she was less familiar with Roman Ravenwood, she could tell from the reactions of those around him that he was acting out of character, and even more noticeably so was Callum.

If these were matters of magic, as she was beginning to suspect, then fate had delivered them to her feet at the perfect time. Quietly, strategically, she had positioned trusted witch hunters throughout the dining hall. Camouflaged in silks and smiles, sitting beside dukes and duchesses, they were not here to enjoy the feast. They were watching. Waiting. And her best card had yet to be played.

As people left the room in droves, she tried to meet the eyes of Torvi. However, she wasn't worried. There was not many places where people could not go in the castle where they would either be heard or seen right now.

Meanwhile, King Edin was several goblets past respectable and entirely unbothered by the simmering tension in the room. In fact, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Slouched contentedly in his gilded chair, he tore into a hunk of roasted pheasant with the gusto of a man at a tavern brawl rather than a royal banquet.

As chairs scraped and nobles excused themselves one by one—some with urgency, some with tight-lipped tension—Edin barely seemed to notice. Or, rather, he noticed in the most Edin way possible.

“Where’s everyone going? ...Even my puppet boy!” he huffed through a mouthful of meat, leaning over slightly toward Alibeth with a dramatic whisper that wasn’t quiet at all. “Did someone say duel by the way? Or is that girl crying again? I love when they cry. It’s so passionate.”

He blinked blearily at Wulfric. “You didn’t scare them off, did you? You do that. You have your mother’s face when you frown—it’s terrifying.” Alibeth gave no reply, though the sharpness in her sideways glance suggested she had considered stabbing him with her butter knife.

Unbothered, Edin sighed dramatically and stabbed at a pile of candied plums. “Ugh. Banquets are no fun when everyone starts having feelings.” He turned to a servant behind him. “Bring me something that bites back. Wine or a woman, surprise me.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Location: Castle Dining Hall
Interactions: @Lava Alckon Farim @Rodiak Nahir @Potter Kira @Helo Rohit

---

Hafiz sat still as marble, eyes fixed ahead as if observing a far grander tapestry than the one draped behind the throne. Roman Ravenwood wielded charm like a dull dagger, flashing it openly, mistaking recklessness for wit. And now, with one graceless swipe, he had sullied both his own name and the girl’s with it. Hafiz watched Violet’s humiliation unfold with the detached scrutiny of a man studying a crack in fine porcelain. She shattered slowly, not with a scream but with a controlled voice. It would have impressed him… if he found sentiment impressive. More so, he found her pain delightful to witness. Hafiz considered the idea that Roman was controlling an unruly woman who secretly loved being shown for what she really was, and he chuckled to himself.

Let us see how long she lasts before she crawls back into the ashes she came from.

Calbert, however. Now that was a man Hafiz had underestimated.

That smile of his, so civil… so terrifying. The Count had taken offense like a noble should: coldly, publicly, with just enough restraint to remind the court that he could have chosen violence and had not. Hafiz noted it carefully. He had long dismissed Calbert as a schemer grown soft with sentiment, but there it was—steel beneath the silk. A father who had been poked too close to the heart.

He would need to be watched more closely.

He swirled the wine in his goblet, though he had no intention of drinking. His voice, when it came, was low and smooth as lacquered wood, offered to no one and everyone at once. “How fragile we become when we mistake appetites for allegiance,” he murmured aloud, the words light as air yet heavy with judgment.

He did not look at Roman. He didn’t have to. The insult hovered in the space between them like suffocating perfume. “Passion,” he added coolly, “has slain more empires than it ever built. But let the children keep playing at war with their hearts, and calling it virtue.”

He let Rohit's words then take his attention, and he smiled at him. "Rohit,” he began, “your father is a man of sharp instinct. I pray you grow into it… in time.” Hafiz’s fingers traced the rim of his goblet, eyes fixed on Rohit with the faintest flicker of amusement—like one might regard a child putting a crown on a dog and declaring it king. “You mistake indulgence for benevolence, Amar.” His tone was calm, but barbed like thorns hidden beneath silk. “But then, you’ve been afforded the luxury of mistaking many things.”

He leaned back slightly, his voice low and smooth as oiled steel.

“Joy does not keep borders secure. Nor does art silence a hungry mob when the grain stores run dry.” A pause, his gaze flitting toward the feasting crowd. “A ruler who feeds spirits over stomachs courts only one thing: rebellion with rhythm.”

Then, as if the moment had grown tedious: “Do throw your festival. Drape it in laughter and silk. Let them feast until their bellies burst. It will make the silence afterward all the more deafening.”

Hafiz's gaze then slid toward Farim. “Commemorate me?” he echoed, voice silken and low, like the beginning of a threat disguised as a compliment. “How generous. I look forward to seeing how you capture restraint and wisdom in gold leaf. Though I fear your artisans may not be familiar with such qualities.”

Meanwhile, the commotion at the middle table rippled through the banquet hall, and Hafiz kept tabs on it all. How embarrassing for them all.

“ALEXANDER DEACON!” The sharp bark of Lorenzo's voice sliced through the air, grating and theatrical. It struck a nerve so deep, it felt almost ancestral. Even from a distance, the sound of it reignited the bitter taste of old offenses.

Residual anger stirred, uncoiling like a serpent in the chest. The memory of past humiliations, of Lorenzo's thoughtless provocations and irreverent antics, was never far from the surface. Hafiz had endured fools before—but Lorenzo Vikena was the rare kind that delighted in dancing on knives. And worse... sometimes managed not to bleed. He glared in the fool's direction, watching as he soon left with the king's peculiar advisor. His pale daughter followed after as she always did, and so had Damien's bastard. Roman expressed interest insanely so in the other Damien daughter, and soon Violet and her mother were also departing.

A faint smile curved his lips—not in amusement, but in promise.

Let them crumble. He would build from the rubble.

Hafiz had just lifted his goblet to his lips when he heard the first thud of paws on linen. His gaze snapped down the table in time to witness an airborne beast—flanks jiggling, jowls flapping—soar over porcelain and poultry like a hellhound loosed upon civilization. Duck, pork, and ribs went cascading into the air like debris from a battlefield, a crimson arc of wine launching upward as Nadim’s massive paws crashed squarely onto Nahir’s shoulders. Hafiz’s breath caught. His eye twitched. The goblet remained frozen mid-air, tilting slightly. His vision narrowed to the chaos as Nahir, rather than remove the beast, shoved it toward him. The Vizier barely had time to suck in a breath before forty kilograms of fur and gleeful slobber landed directly on his plate.

One paw skidded across his chest, another knocked his wine to the floor. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

His nostrils flared as slow, hot rage began to bloom behind his eyes. The world around him may as well have gone silent. “You disgrace yourself.” he hissed, voice low, trembling with rage he refused to fully unleash. Hafiz rose with terrifying composure, shoving the dog aside with a flick of his hand, the beast’s yelp dismissed as beneath his notice. His gaze found Nahir’s, sharp and merciless as he continued for just her ears:

“You couldn’t even protect Kahrem. "

A cruel smile curved his lips. He let the words linger, let the silence stretch like a noose before speaking again, “And you’ve done no better with yourself. ”

He stepped closer, voice dipping to a silken whisper that was almost intimate, but entirely lethal. " You flail for attention like a drunk on stage and call it diplomacy.” He then leaned in, his voice sinking to a deadly whisper.

“You’re not your mother, Nahir. And gods know, you’ll never be me.”

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Clayton Radshaw - Exiled lycan.

Header/Image

Basic Information

Name: Clayton Radshaw
Nickname(s): Clay
Age: 32
Gender: Male
Birthday: 04/04 (Aries)
Race: Lycan
Rank/Status: Lone Wolf

Appearance

Height: 6'1
Build: Solid
Eye Color: Hazel
Hair Color & Style: Dark, long, disheveled. Always seems a few days overdue a cut.
Skin Tone: Fair / tanned.
Notable Marks: Tattoos and scars of such number that they become unremarkable.
Typical Clothing Style: Practical, functional, well worn.
Aura/First Impression: Intimidating, cold, cocky, a bit rough-around-the-edges kind of guy.
Voice:

Psychology

Hobbies/Interests
✦ Drinking
✦ Fighting
✦ F^^^ing
(Not necessarily in that order)
Likes
✦ Whisky
✦ Motorbikes
✦ Tattoo's
Dislikes
✦ Authority
✦ Technology
✦ Vegans
Fears
✦ Being controlled
✦ Losing control
✦ Claustrophobia
Habits
✦ Smoking when drunk
✦ Making dumb A$$ bets
✦ Keeping his word
Vices
✦ Short tempered
✦ Fear of commitment/ Self loathing
✦ Drinking

Core Motivation: He's running, has been for as long as he can remember. It's always been from one thing or another. Been at it so long that he can't even remember why he first started, but he sure as hell isn't going to stop and look back now.

Personality Overview: Clayton can seem a bit brash and rude, and that's likely because he is, but despite his rough-around-the-edges demeanour he is actually quite a caring guy. His anger often gets the better of him and in those moments he might seem compassionless, but he is haunted by those moments and the awful things said and done.

He tries to do right, not by the law but by his own sense of moral code. Few understand what that might be because he is so slow and reluctant to trust.
Right, wrong, good, bad, the future, the past. All these things are a plague on his mind that he uses alcohol to wash away.

Although if he does happen let someone close, to truly let them in, know that he would die for them without hesitation, and just as easily tear their entire world apart if they ever purposely betray him.

Grudges are just unpaid debts and all debts must be paid, eventually.

Relationships and Reputation

Openness to Friendship (1-5): 2
Openness to Romance (1-5): 4
Romantic Preferences: Casual/flirty/short term/polyamory.
Current Romantic Interests: None
View on Forbidden Relationships: "Don't tell me who I can or can't be with."
Biggest Turn-ons:
✦ Tattoo's
✦ Leather
✦ Confidence
Biggest Turn-offs:
✦ Pet play
✦ Being belittled
✦ Immaturity
How They Handle Love: Has a fear of commitment. Pushes it away if it gets too close, too real. Self sabotaging by messing it up. Can't be hurt if they don't get close.
Reputation Among Their Race/Faction: A traitor, reckless, wild. Exiled.
Relationship with the Glamour: It's a cage. A big one, but a cage nonetheless.
Known Enemies: Everyone who's not his friend.
Known Friends Friends are just enemies who haven't stabbed you in the back yet.
Known Family Members:
Father is a washed up cripple drunk.
Mother was put down by the wardens after slowly losing her mind.
Younger sister missing for years after running away, presumed dead.

Background

Current Occupation: Mechanic
Level of Schooling(if any): Early dropout.
Past Occupations: Bouncer / Dealer / Inmate
Socioeconomic Status: Mid.
History Summary:
Clay has already lived a life, one full of hardship and loss. Poverty and pain. A deadbeat father who was never around, a struggling single mother loosely tethered to reality and a rough merciless neighbourhood devouring hope and prosperity like light to a black hole.

His upbringing was tragic but no worse than the average poorly educated family stuck in a poverty stricken cycle of bad influences, poor options and little hope. Only he was lycan and part of a small dying pack.

It was no surprise when he fell into a life of petty crime. Even at a young age an unrelenting rage burned in his heart. His tendency towards violence and utter ruthlessness lead him up the pack hierarchy where for a short time he had it all. He was living the high life (by his previous standards) up until he wasn't.

In a game that doesn't end you're guaranteed to eventually lose. Clay lost everything and badly. It was a bloody betrayal, one that cost him 7 years of his life locked away behind bars and saw him exiled from his former pack with the promise of murder should he ever return. The only reason he wasn't killed was because those that remain were too weak to do so.

Race-Specific Questions

▸ Lycans:
✦Born or Turned?: Born
✦Reaction to Full Moon: Heightened emotions, senses and desires. Itchy skin. Shorter attention. Less focused. More aggression. More hunger.
✦Pack Loyalty Level: Exiled
✦Views on Mortals: Pity for the blind. Respect for the Wardens. Disgust for the fang bangers & blood bags.
✦Views on Vampires: They are all pompous c^^t's but at least they don't pretend to be anything anything other. Tolerable at times.
✦Views on Fae: The worst of them. A talking Fae is a lying Fae. A breathing Fae is an untrustworthy Fae. The true architects of this prison. Would be better off without them.

Miscellaneous

Theme Song:
Scars - Stonesour
Omerta - Lamb of God

Favorite Food: Italian
Favorite Animal(s): Crows
Favorite Music Genre: Metal
Favorite Haunt: Gutterbane chop-shop.
Signature Weapon (if any): Fists, Tooth and claw
Preferred Vices:
Pet Peeve:
Guilty Pleasure: Bowling

@Dark Light

I approve!

✨Beyond The Veil✨

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Outside warehouse Gutter’s End → Coldfang Safehouse in GutterBane • Time: Dusk

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

---

The engine coughed to life just as the unmistakable opening riff of the Scooby-Doo theme blared from her phone, loud, ridiculous, and somehow perfectly timed for the night she was having. Angel snorted at the absurdity, a breathy laugh escaping her lips as she tossed her blood-smeared jacket onto the passenger seat without ceremony. With a stretch, she leaned back into the seat, one knee casually nudging the wheel as she slipped a cigarette from the battered pack in her pocket.

A flick of her lighter sparked a brief orange glow, casting light over the dried crimson streaking her fingers. Smoke curled past her lips as she shifted into gear, her hand leaving a smear across the wheel. Then she thumbed the phone screen to answer, a smirk forming as the cigarette hung from her lips.

“...If it isn’t my favorite emotional support lycan,” she purred, voice rich with teasing warmth. “Calling just to hear my voice, darling? Or are we confessing to another mailman incident tonight?”

Luther’s partially turned hand raked the stone wall with misshapen claws. This feeling of pain and overwhelming dread was like being told not to fall asleep when one had a concussion. There was no telling what might happen the moment he chose to let his eyes close. Agonized breaths left his throat as he tried to hold back whatever was happening. His eyes were locked onto the screen before him, his hand gripping the phone like the lifeline it was.

The pressure in his chest let up for the single moment in which the display on his phone shifted to show an active call.

Luther’s pained, mumbled cries and strained breathing were the first sounds carried across the connection. Her voice had been like a heavenly angel’s when it came through but he couldn’t afford her a snarky response this time. ”Sicily…Listen, I need…fucckk!”

The harsh symphony of pained breaths and muffled agony on the other end of the line instantly wiped the smirk from Angel's face. Anxiety pooled in the pit of her stomach as she gripped the phone tighter, eyes darkening with concern.

"Luther?" she urged softly, her voice suddenly stripped of all humor. "What the fuck’s going on?"

Luther gritted his teeth as the bones shifting in his legs cracked and grew enough to drop him to his knees. ”I need you to get…to Gutterbane quick…I’m…near a Coldfang safehouse…I’ll try to send you…the address.”

Her pulse quickened instantly, chest constricting painfully at the sheer torment evident in his voice. "Send me your location. “ Angel replied swiftly, urgency layering her words."Just go to my contact and click 'share location."

Speaking in this warped state was growing more painful by the second. He hated this so much. Every blink brought flashes of that nightmare and his body didn’t understand it couldn’t do something about it. Luther had never felt weaker and more pitiful than in that moment.

"...Luther, listen to me," Angel spoke again, her voice unwavering, infused with warmth as she accelerated her car, "I'm on my way right now, okay? I won't let anything happen—just stay on the line with me. I’m right here.”

A yell cut through the moment —"HEY!" Angel glanced in her mirror, sighing at the figures barreling after her from the warehouse.

”Sending now…What’s…going on?” He weakly asked as he found himself a part of the alley that should be free of most foot traffic. Luther wasted no time in sharing his location to Angel, glad that one of them could think straight. Had he interrupted her on a mission? He let his mess of a transformed body slump against the cool, stone wall.

"Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me," she muttered darkly, slamming her boot down harder on the accelerator. Tires screamed against asphalt as the car lurched forward, easily dodging a bottle hurled through the air behind her, exploding in a glittering cascade of glass on the pavement. Her free hand tightened on the wheel, but when she spoke again to Luther, her voice returned to its gentle reassurance.

"Just hold on for me a little longer, babe."

Nothing about the alley changed, at least not at first. Cold fog began to spill from the cracks in the stone wall and he felt the chill that came with it. The distortions in his hands made it impossible to wipe his eyes. ”Tch…always…making me wait…huh?” What should have been a laugh came out as a labored cough, likely harming his intention to inject some levity now that a lan was in motion. His eyes blinked. Luther had taken his eyes off his surroundings for just a brief moment but the fog that had started circling him was gone along with the dip in temperature.

It wasn’t long before the sound of an engine cutting out with a violent sputter filled the air, and headlights sliced into the alley just long enough to catch the hunched figure trembling against the brick. The driver’s side door slammed open before the car had fully stopped. Angel was already moving, her cigarette flung and forgotten, smoke trailing behind her.

Luther squinted his eyes as bright light filled the other end of the alley. This was it. The curse had finally taken him. Now the heavens were calling for him. He focused on the figure that moved quickly out from behind the wall of light.The shadow had curves for days and he could catch the faintest glimpses of blonde around the dark veil that obscured her. A beautiful valkyrie comes to take him to Vahalla. His delirious awe did not last for long as more of her features became clear the closer she got. ”Sicily..?” His voice had deepend with the changes to his throat and lower jaw.

“Luther!” she called out sharply, tone raw with urgency, already crouching beside him. She didn’t hesitate: not when she saw his claws, nor when she saw his twisted limbs.

Her eyes flicked over his body, gauging the damage. She then took his clawed hand without flinching, squeezing it tightly. “ I’m here now. ” Then softer beneath her breath she added: “You scared the shit outta me.”

Luther had felt like he had been floating away from his own body amidst the pain and dread that wanted to crush him and reshape him into something else. The moment her hand took his and spoke with such concern Luther felt himself crashing back down. It was something real he could hold onto. ”Just…keep talking.” If he could just focus on her right now, just maybe it would turn out alright.

His body was an absolute mess, more than he even realized in the haze of pain and lingering effects from the vision. The bones in his legs had grown to accommodate what would be an absolutely huge Lycan, yet the muscles and skin had not kept up to contain it all. His right shoulder and arm were similarly disfigured as was his neck and the lower half of his face.

Angel’s brows knitted together, her eyes darting over his form. Instinctively, she tightened her grip on his clawed hand, ignoring the sting as jagged edges grazed her palm, drawing faint crimson lines across her pale skin. Her free hand gently brushed aside the strands of his blonde hair from his forehead. “You’re okay, Luther. Just breathe with me, alright?” Her voice was calm, softer than she usually allowed it to be. “In… and out… just like we practiced.”

Luther did as she said, letting her voice drown out the chaotic mess of his thoughts. His chest rose and fell slowly in even breaths. Yes. He was going to be fine now that Sicily was here. She was tougher than anyone else he knew. Luther couldn’t help but dig his claws deeper into the hand that grounded him in reality. He’d have to apologize later. The swell of emerging muscle mass and bone slowed to a crawl.

"Listen to my voice," she continued quietly,"You’re stronger than whatever's got its claws into you tonight.” Then, after another moment, Angel lifted her head slightly, eyes glinting with mischief as she managed a small smile. "But seriously," she teased lightly and gently, breaking through the tension. "This is exactly why you've gotta stop chasing the mailman. How many times do we need to talk about this?"

She squeezed his hand gently again, expression softening into affectionate amusement. "Poor guy’s just doing his job… I’m pretty sure he's considering a restraining order by now."

His eyes narrowed at her hearing the running joke between them and huffed. ”He knows…what he did. I’ll get…him one of these days.” By then, any signs of growth had ceased. Simple discomfort and ache replacing the terrible pain of shifting. The distortions in his thoughts and vision came to an end. He wasn’t in that cold place. He wasn’t a butcher of his own mother. No. He was here, getting poked fun at by his best friend like always. Luther wasn’t that vile monster…at least not yet.

Angel’s lips curved into a wry smirk as she gently ran her thumb over the back of his hand before relinquishing her touch. “Oh I bet,” she replied with a light giggle.

His eyes finally managed to focus on her and the copper scent of blood flooded his nose. Luther did his best to make an exaggerated look of disgust at her that looked disturbing as his body began to reverse the changes made to his body. ”There are better ... .ways to bring a snack with you…” He chuckled lowly as his voice returned to him.

“Sorry. Got into a bit of a scuffle.”

Her gaze lingered on his, gentler now. “So… this is usually the part where I ask if you wanna talk about what happened,” she said with mock thoughtfulness, before letting the smirk creep back in, “but since I’m an unrepentant jackass, I’m also gonna bring about the idea we just head down to Sundown Row while the night’s still young and pretend none of this horrifying shit just happened.”

Luther’s body once more began to crack as he shifted again. It was slightly less painful this time as his partially turned muscle mass and bones shrank and set into their proper places. He felt physically and mentally drained so the last thing he wanted was to spend the next hour talking about what happened. It was far too fresh in his memory. It hadn’t been real. It was just a vision. Just a vision.

”No arguments here. He smirked as he shifted and rolled the muscles that had recently recovered. ”Except one that is…” Luther wobbled as he stood up. ”Ain't no way in hell I'm getting caught with you like that.” gestured to all of her with a wicked grin.

Angel let out a dry laugh, wiping a smear of blood from her cheek with the back of her hand. “Oh, piss off. I’m the best thing you’ve got going for you right now.”

She offered her hand as she rose to her feet, eyes glinting with that familiar fire. “But don’t worry, we’ll both get cleaned up first.” Her smirk softened just a touch.

“Then we’ll fucking party.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Location: Castle Dining Hall
Time: Evening
Mention: @ReusableSword Roman @Oso Cassius @Tpartywithzombi Violet @FunnyGuy Alexander/Lorenzo

---

Calbert did not blink. Not once.

As his daughter spoke, each syllable cut sharper than the last, her words carved from agony that cut him deep. He watched her with a stillness that belied the storm beneath his skin. His fingers, gloved and resting on the tablecloth, twitched, restraining the primal urge to tear Roman Ravenwood apart at the seams. Not for the insult alone. No, Calbert had endured slander, threats, and even assassination attempts without batting an eye.

But this—this was something else.

This was his daughter, his Violet, standing before a court of wolves with her heart bleeding into her gown, trying to mask anguish, speaking truths that no child of his should have to arm themselves with. And all the while, that smug bastard across the table sat with a smile on his lips, as if he hadn’t just gutted her publicly.

Calbert’s jaw clenched with enough force to crack bone. The Count did not interrupt Violet. He would not steal this moment of power from her. But make no mistake, every word she uttered was etched into his soul like a vow, and when she was done, when she had carved her name back into the court’s memory with her own fire and grit, Calbert Damien would see to it that every man who dared twist her pain into performance paid with interest. Roman had started a game he did not understand.

His gaze cut to Callum the moment the prince’s voice turned its ire toward Cassius. His hand stilled mid-motion, the weight of his wine goblet suddenly too light to justify movement. For a heartbeat, he said nothing—not out of fear, but calculation. Calbert’s fury didn’t roar—it simmered, slow and patient like coals.

He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin, folded it with care, and sat still even as Cassius reacted rashly.

Callum’s defense of Roman gnawed at him, not because the prince spoke harshly, but because it made absolutely no sense. That boy, Edin’s royal problem child, was suddenly aligning himself with decrees of abuse? Passionately? And for what? To champion a man who had just embarrassed an innocent noblewoman with a smirk and a bite of ribs? Uncharacteristic didn’t even begin to describe it. Callum never threw his weight behind those who were this deeply immoral. Unless... unless it wasn't weight he was throwing, but a shield.

And Ravenwood was also different.

He had always been composed, yes—but never cruel. Calbert’s mind clicked into motion, each word, each glance, each laugh at the table slotting into place like a poisoned puzzle. Calbert’s fingers curled slowly around the stem of his glass, thoughts sharp as daggers behind his composed facade. Something was different, and the prince and the brute were just the first to tip their hands.

Nonetheless, Calbert found a sliver of grim satisfaction in watching Cassius rise—however recklessly—in defense of his family. That fire, however misguided, was still his blood. Seeing his son stand behind Violet, even while unraveling, struck a chord Calbert rarely allowed himself to feel. He had already braced himself to intervene, to take the full weight of the court's onslaught as the notion of a duel was offered. Yet before he could act, it was Alexander Deacon who stepped in.

The count gaze narrowed, the faintest crease forming between his brows. The moment Cassius began to adhere to Alexander’s words, something twisted in the count’s chest—not relief, but confusion. Then a loud yell caught his attention.

Calbert’s gaze snapped cleanly to the source, his spine straightening as Lorenzo Vikena stormed forward, his voice slicing through the hum of murmured nobles and clinking silver. The outburst was not entirely unexpected—Lorenzo had always been a creature of emotion wrapped in poor breeding.

He was already preparing to dismiss the drama when movement caught his eye—Charlotte.

Her movements as she moved toward Cassius weren’t frantic or calculated. No, they were human—disarmingly honest, and that made them all the more dangerous. Then she hugged him, and Cassius let her.

Calbert studied them like a man reading a page he didn’t remember writing.

“As the king decrees I acquiesce. I shall not pursue courtship with Lady Violet Damien until it is otherwise allowed by the powers that be. Am I of the understanding that these wishes apply to Lady Crystal Damien as well?”

Calbert Damien's jaw tightened, muscles beneath his skin taut as iron wire, and his eyes fell on Roman with outrage. The words obviously cut deep into poor Violet, and soon she was leaving with her mother in tow. The table's chaos blurred into irrelevance, each word and face fading away, until all he saw was Roman Ravenwood’s damned, insufferable smile. It was not the smug grin alone that angered him—no, he'd faced arrogance plenty of times—but the very fact that Roman never let it waver. The brute met every barb, every accusation, every cut to his reputation with that infuriatingly calm expression, a mask so transparent in its hostility that it was almost laughable.

Almost.

Because Calbert Damien knew better.

He recognized the game Roman was playing. The moment Roman had caught himself and changed direction upon seeing Charlotte hug Cassius had revealed some of his cards to the count, if only for a moment.

To stand before one’s enemies, smiling as if in celebration, while secretly letting the world burn at your feet was not madness; it was strategy. Roman was purposely instigating chaos, offering up his relationship with Violet, taunting Alexander, provoking Calbert himself—every step choreographed to ignite tension and fracture the banquet into chaos. But why? What could Roman possibly gain by alienating every ally and making enemies of powerful houses at a single stroke?

Unless…Roman was not the one gaining from it at all.

Calbert’s eyes narrowed slowly, the realization sliding like ice into his veins. His pupils darkened, and the faintest curl twisted the edge of his mouth, a smile without warmth, without humor—just quiet, patient cruelty waiting to bloom.

After all, the Count of Montague had never been one to enjoy playing chess without all the pieces.

He leaned back slightly, posture relaxed, almost casual, yet the subtle stillness of his form radiated a silent threat. His fingertips, barely visible beneath the table’s edge, drummed a slow, steady rhythm on his thigh. It was a small, insignificant movement, yet the repetition held the quiet promise of knives sharpened in shadow.

He felt a familiar darkness stir in his chest. Paranoia’s sweet poison rising to meet fury's slow burn. Someone thought they could puppeteer Ravenwood, turn him loose to strike at his family, mock him, wound him, and escape unseen. Someone believed themselves clever enough to manipulate the board without his notice, like a spider creeping into another’s web.

But Calbert Damien was not simply clever.

He was mercilessly brilliant.

Though he was certainly furious, beneath it all there was something else: excitement. An ugly thrill he rarely indulged, the dark joy of having a true rival worthy of ruin.

He would peel away every shadow, every whispered order, every hidden face. He would follow the strands until the puppet master had nowhere left to run. And then he would destroy them—not swiftly, not cleanly, but with agonizing deliberation, leaving their ruin behind as a warning.

No one touched his family without paying in blood.

His gaze settled again on Roman, on the façade that man wore with such practiced ease, and Calbert’s cold, hollow smile widened just a fraction more—revealing nothing yet promising everything.

Calbert Damien did not simply play chess.

He flipped the board and slit the throat of whoever dared try to take his pieces.

Keep smiling, Ravenwood...Smile while you can. I promise, I will find the one holding your chains. And when I do, neither you nor they will find reason to smile ever again.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Duke Gideon Edwards

Time: 6pm
Location: Castle Dining Hall
Interaction/Mention: @TpartywithZombi Ariella @Lava Alckon Drake @Tae Thea @Helo Leo

---

Gideon’s eyes tracked Thea’s departure in silence, the edges of his expression pulled taut with concern. There was something raw in the way she moved, in the way her hand curled around that bottle like it was the only thing still steady in her world. He recognized that kind of quiet unraveling.

Not theatrical. Not attention-seeking. Just... wounded.

And proud enough to bleed behind a curtain of grace. Slowly, Gideon shifted his gaze to Drake. It was the kind of look that didn’t require words. A look that said: She’s your heart. Go.

He then watched Ariella rise and follow after. His daughter’s strength had always impressed him, but he also knew its cost. He’d seen how it hardened her, how it isolated her. He smiled kindly and proudly as she murmured her intention to check on Thea, Gideon gave a single nod, slow and approving.

He followed her gaze briefly—caught the glimmer of her longing when her eyes lingered on Callum, and then the stiffness in her spine when she noticed him instead. Milo. Even across the room, Gideon caught how his presence cooled the air around her like frost on glass.

Then she was gone too, disappearing toward the doors with Thea, two young women wrapped in shared silence and secondhand grief. Gideon leaned back slightly in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he exhaled through his nose. The table was quieter now. The tension less theatrical, more sullen.

He cast one another glance toward Drake, his son now sitting at the epicenter of yet another storm he hadn’t caused but had no choice but to weather. Gideon offered him the faintest smile. “If they return happy,” he murmured under his breath, “I’ll consider this evening a win.”

Gideon didn’t interrupt as Leo and Drake then engaged in discussion.

He simply leaned back in his chair, swirling the remnants of his wine as the two young men spoke.

A subtle lift of his brow followed Drake’s confession, and there was a quiet flicker of something proud in his eyes—not because of the love speech, but because of the way he spoke from his heart.

But beneath that quiet pride, something far heavier settled deep in Gideon’s chest, drawing him painfully inward. It was the ache that only comes when love becomes regret, and regret becomes infinite mourning. In that moment, the air turned cold around him, pulling him back into memories he’d tried to bury beneath layers of duty and decorum—memories of laughter caught between secretive glances, of quiet whispers exchanged in the shadowed corners of the palace gardens, hidden carefully behind ivy and moonlight.

He remembered the stolen nights, the hours slipping by in each other’s quiet company, believing—naively, desperately—that they had all the time in the world. He remembered the softness of his smile, the way those eyes—gentle yet strong—had made Gideon feel impossibly seen, and how, in every quiet pause, the words had hovered, always just out of reach.

But he had never spoke them. He’d been too afraid. Afraid of scandal. Afraid of what it might mean to put words to something that felt impossibly fragile. He’d been convinced there would always be tomorrow. Another night beneath the stars. Another chance.

And then there wasn’t.

He’d never forget the silence of that morning.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Second character. Warden shrink.

Andrew Carlino

Header/Image

________________________________________

Basic Information

Name: Andrew Carlino
Nickname(s): Doc
Age: I’m 37; I’m not old.
Gender: Male
Birthday: May 5
Race: Human/Warden
Rank/Status Title (if any): Field Warden
________________________________________

Appearance

Height: 5’9” (1.75m)
Build: Medium. Tends to skinnyfat if he hasn’t been hitting the racquetball court lately.
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color & Style: | Brown, straight and long, pulled back in a ponytail. Starting to show hints of gray. Small moustache that totally isn’t modeled after Johnny Depp.
Skin Tone: Olive
Notable Marks: A faint, quarter-sized birthmark in the middle of his forehead. Becomes more noticeable when he gets agitated.
Typical Clothing Style: Business casual. Usually wears a tie during consultations. Wears round, rimless glasses in the office. Contacts otherwise.
Aura/First Impression: Cool, phlegmatic, and professional without being too off-putting. Likes to keep things brisk and concise. May lose patience if his interlocutor takes too long to get to the point.
Voice: Clear and moderately deep. Has a good baritone singing voice, although he’s not trained.

________________________________________

Psychology

Hobbies/Interests: Racquetball. Fencing. Crossword puzzles. Humorous poetry. Piano. Used to play violin, but no longer has time to keep it up.
Likes ] Italian food. Desserts. Scarlatti. A good puzzle or mystery. Good coffee.
Dislikes: Most of his patients. Tedious, pretentious art(ists). Salads and other antipasti. Bad coffee. Moths.
Fears Losing his own sanity. Being physically restrained or confined. This “Hour of Reckoning” the other Wardens keep talking about.
Habits Paces. Talks to himself. Drums his fingers in time to music in his head. Drinks coffee constantly.
Vices Caffeine. Poor eating habits. Tends to eat dessert first, especially if it’s tiramisu.

Core Motivation:
To help people. Specifically, to help humans adjust to and accept the psychological effects of the Glamour. Doctor Carlino realizes that humans who start to glimpse the reality behind the Glamour are in both psychological and physical peril. Unless his patients are Warden material, he prescribes them therapy and treatment that will suppress dangerous ideation and steer them back towards accepting the Glamour at face value.

Personality Overview:

Andrew Carlino is an intelligent, discerning, and sensitive person. He is not, however, emotionally warm or personable, and so does not make friends easily. Nor, being keenly aware of the fragility and impermanence of life, health, sanity, love, and friendship, is he eager to do so, pursuing instead the safer and less emotionally demanding companionship of pets and strippers.
________________________________________

Relationships and Reputation

Openness to Friendship (1-5): 2
Openness to Romance (1-5): 2
Romantic Preferences: None.
Current Romantic Interests (if any): None.
View on Forbidden Relationships: Has no dogmatic views on the subject, only the practical view that they usually end badly.
Biggest Turn-ons: Intelligence. Culture. Boobs. In that order, I promise.
Biggest Turn-offs: BDSM. People who talk too much.
Known Enemies: TBD
Known Friends TBD
Known Family Members: TBD

________________________________________

Background

Current Occupation: Psychiatrist
Level of Schooling(if any): MD in Psychiatry. B.S. in Biochemistry and Psychology.
Past Occupations (if any): Music Teacher
Socioeconomic Status: Well-to-do. Psychiatric therapy is in-demand in Halcyon.
History Summary:

Andrew is the older of two children born to Paul and Nicole Carlino, both physicians. His childhood was comfortable and fairly contented, although his parents worked long hours, leaving him and his younger sister Sofia to their own devices much of the time.

Andrew knew since childhood that he wanted to become a doctor like his parents; however, only in his third year at college did he decide that he was more interested in mental rather than physical health. After attending an extra semester in college to fulfill the requirements of double major in biochemistry and psychology, he went to medical school.

Andrew’s training during his psychiatry clerkship involved studying numerous therapy sessions at the psychiatric ward of Halcyon General Hospital, and discussing these in class. Andrew noticed an unusual prevalence of paranoia and delusional syndromes among the cases they studied showing few other comorbidities, and brought this up several times in class discussion, only to be met time and again with explanations he found unconvincing and even evasive.

When he met with his academic advisor to express his dissatisfaction with this development, the advisor offered to transfer him to a different program, one which, she assured him, would be more to his liking and better suited to his talents. This would prove to be Andrew’s introduction to the Wardens, who maintained a recruiting and training program for medical professionals who could supply the unique mental and physical health needs, arising from the Wardens’ activities, and especially their use of enhancements. Only later, after he had learned about the realities behind the Glamour, would Andrew appreciate how close his suspicions had brought him to being one of the psychiatric patients he had previously studied, or worse.

In addition to working for the Wardens as a resident psychiatrist, Andrew has for the last six years run a part-time private practice out of his home office for civilian patients. Between the two practices, Andrew earns a good living.
________________________________________

Race-Specific Questions

(Fill the one that fits your race)

▸ Wardens:
✦ Enhancement Use(If any): Sparing use of Viper-Veil Injections when dealing with non-humans. Usually takes it before visiting Bumps In the Night.
✦ Preferred Weapons: Rapier.
✦ Willingness to Break Warden Code:

“Dammit Dane, I’m a doctor, not a merc!” Andrew Carlino is a *psychiatrist*, meaning a medical doctor who has taken the Hippocratic Oath. As such, he will not kill except in self-defense. He has done so once before, when a lycan he was attempting to treat attacked him during an especially intense therapy session. This technically qualified him for an Iron Brand, and with it the rank of Field Warden, although Andrew rarely acknowledges either. He views the Iron Brand as a mark of failure, not a badge of honor.

Andrew’s no-kill policy has put him at odds with the Warden leadership, but he has made it clear to them that it is part of his price for his services. The Commander has insisted, however, that he train and qualify in firearms like all the other Wardens, a requirement Andrew only fulfills grudgingly.

✦ Views on Fae: Ambivalent. Their machinations are the main source both of his patients’ issues and his own livelihood. Not to be trusted.
✦ Views on Vampires: Incurable, treacherous predators. The one race Andrew would most readily consider killing.
✦ Views on Lycan: Volatile types with dangerous, but potentially manageable conditions. Would rather put them in therapy than the ground, but knows this is not always an achievable outcome

________________________________________

Miscellaneous

Theme Song: Domenico Scarlatti, Keyboard sonata in F major, K296.
Favorite Food: Tiramisu. As antipasto, main dish, side dish, and dessert.
Favorite Animal(s): Terriers are my very favorite breed. Currently has a Jack Russel terrier named Fenrir, the World Devourer. The dog finds that the name fits him perfectly.
Favorite Music Genre: Classical
Favorite Haunt (location): Home, mostly. Occasionally visits human strip clubs or even Bumps In the Night.
Signature Weapon (if any): Rapier
Preferred Vices: Caffeine addiction. Busty strippers (with intelligence and culture).
Pet Peeve: Wardens-mandated firearms practice.
Guilty Pleasure: Junk food. Busty strippers without intelligence and culture.

________________________________________

@Ctenoid Soul

Awesome job! I approve.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Warehouse in the outskirts of Gutterbane • Time: Dusk

Interactions: N/A • Mentions: @Ithradine Luther

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Music

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The scent hit her first.

Metallic, thick, and drowning her senses, clawing down her throat. Instinct twisted her stomach long before she had pushed open the heavy doors, the quiet crunch of shattered glass beneath her boots suddenly deafening in the silence.

Dusk bled through cracks in the warehouse ceiling, spilling weak light onto a scene ripped straight from a nightmare. Dozens of bodies hung suspended from the rafters like grotesque puppets, pale limbs swaying gently. Their skin held the waxy sheen of death, and their face stared out with wide, glassy eyes that seemed to bore into hers in greeting. Tubes ran from punctured veins, dark tendrils snaking downward into vats that glittered obscenely, brimming with ruby liquid that shimmered under the fading daylight.

Angel stood rooted, hands flexing at her sides, the floor beneath was slick under her boots. Her blue eyes flashed faintly crimson in primal response, rooted to her spot. Her lip quivered almost unnoticeably as she finally took one step forward, leather jacket whispering against her body as she drew her blades, twin shards of gleaming silver reflecting what little light remained.

"Oi, love. Should be a quick one for ya — local tip says there’s a rogue squatter holed up in an old bottling warehouse down in Gutter South. Place’s a dump, full of rust and rats. Should be right up your alley, yeah, Sicily baby?"

She stepped closer, her gaze lingering over the sight of a nude body on the ground. The man was twisted unnaturally, sprawled in a crimson puddle of his blood. Waxy skin stretched over hollow cheeks, eyes blown wide and frozen in a look of terror, mouth still parted mid-scream. He was already drained, staining the concrete floor in thick arterial ribbons.

Grigg's voice buzzed in her ear like a gnat, the sound of his voicemail replaying in her mind once again.

"Client says he’s gone mental. Sippin’ from mortals without a license, real messy work...Anyway, clean it up, make it loud if you like, I don’t care. Long as he’s dead by dusk."

Her jaw clenched, and her brows furrowed. "Lying piece of shit." she muttered icily, as if the corpse had personally offended her. The world around her blurred as fury swelled in her chest like a storm.

Then came footsteps. Her senses snapped sharp as steel, vision clearing instantly.

Three.

She moved before the first attacker lunged. Ducking low, Angel spun fluidly, slashing upward, her blade carving a precise arc through flesh and bone. Blood sprayed her face in a manner that was both hot on her cool skin and familiar. The first attacker staggered back with a guttural howl, his chest split wide open.

The second struck from behind, fangs flashing. Angel pivoted sharply, driving an elbow into his throat. As he choked, she drove a blade upward through his jaw, burying steel in the soft palate of his mouth. He fell without another sound, eyes shocked wide in silent death.

The third hesitated, eyes flashing fear and fury. Angel didn't give her time to reconsider. She leapt forward, blades slicing the air with lethal grace. Her opponent fought desperately, claws and fangs tearing at Angel’s leather jacket, drawing shallow red lines across her pale skin. But Angel's rage outmatched desperation. Her blades buried into the female again and again, cutting deeper until the vampire collapsed, shuddering and still.

Breathing hard, Angel stood amid the carnage, blood slick on her fingers, dripping from her blades like falling stars. Around her, silence reclaimed the darkened warehouse, broken only by her own breath and the faint drip of stolen life from above.

She wiped her blade clean on the fallen woman's shirt, her eyes dull.

A wet, rasping sound behind her made her turn.

The first vampire she’d struck, the one she’d opened from collarbone to navel, was still alive. Slumped against the rusted base of a blood tank, his hands pressed feebly to the gaping wound in his chest, fingers sliding over split muscle and gleaming rib. His blood shimmered like oil in the dim light, but his eyes… his eyes were alight with cruel mirth as a gurgling laugh escaped his lips. The sound slithered up her spine.

He coughed thickly, lips curling into a jagged smile that dripped crimson down his chin. “That all you got, Goldilocks?” he rasped, voice like shattered glass. “You think you killed us all? The others will return any minute now!”

Angel’s expression didn’t change.

He coughed again, this time with pain, but he was still grinning. “A vampire killin’ her own brothers and sisters. That’s gotta be considered sacrilege... or maybe just fuckin' punk rock, eh?”"

Angel raised a brow. Her fingers curled tighter around her blade. "Shut up and die already."

He lifted his head with effort, locking his bloodshot gaze to hers. There was amusement in his eyes, like he had one last joke left to play, even as his lifeblood soaked into the warehouse floor. “I've seen you before, you know... Walkin’ around with those baby blues like you still got a soul. Protecting the cattle like you ain’t just another monster.” He laughed again — not the wild, mocking cackle from before. The sound scraped from his chest like the last echo of a life he’d already half-forgotten.

He leaned his head back against the cold steel behind him, and his gaze, though fading, still sought hers. “You know what’s funny?” he wheezed, “If someone had told me... that bein’ a vampire didn’t mean I had to be a bastard... maybe I’d’ve done things a little different. Maybe.” The words hit heavier than she wanted to admit.

To her surprise, tears had begun to gloss over his eyes, glinting faintly. Angel said nothing at first.
She should have finished him... Put a blade through his throat and walked away as she always did.

But she didn’t move.

His smile wavered as his eyes flicked downward. “Guess I’m not gonna make it, huh?”

There was no time left, not really, but something in Angel’s chest twisted. She stepped forward just a few paces, then knelt beside him, and she took his hand. He stared at her in stunned silence, as though the touch itself was something holy, something he didn’t deserve. His blood-slicked fingers twitched in hers, as if unsure whether to fight or cling.

“I used to be a father, you know,” he murmured eventually, “My little Molly...Oh, she looked just like her mother." His glassy gaze drifted upward, as if the rafters above had turned into something beautiful above him. Whatever he saw there, it wasn’t the warehouse. “She’d sit cross-legged on the floor, back straight like a soldier, waitin’ for me to finish fixing her hair. Giggled like mad, said I always pulled too hard.”

His trembling hand reached into empty air as though he could smooth her hair just one more time. “I used to braid it every morning… blue ribbons, her favorite. Said they made her magic.”

A ghost of a laugh escaped him, the kind of sound that died before it made it far. “Last thing she saw of me was me runnin’ for good. She was at the door... holdin’ one of her ribbons, waitin’ for me to fix her hair.” His voice was fractured, as though speaking hurt more than the wound tearing him apart. “Thought I was protectin’ her… keepin’ the monster away..."

His red pupils shook as tears streaked down his cheeks. “Didn’t even say goodbye. She probably thought I didn’t love her.”

Angel’s throat tightened. “You did love her,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than her breath. “You still do.”

“Do you think…” He hesitated, the question trembling in the space between them. “Do you think she’d forgive me?”

Angel didn’t answer right away, but when she did, her voice was gentle. “...I bet she’s still waiting for you, ribbon in hand.”

He turned his head slightly, resting it against the cold steel tank behind him, his fading eyes drifting down to their joined hands. A faint sound, almost a sigh, escaped him. “You’re kind,” he said, almost in disbelief, as though he’d only just realized it.

Angel met his eyes steadily. "I'm no less a monster than you are." She confessed quietly.

Something genuine morphed his smile, and for a moment, it looked like he might slip away in peace.

But then he jerked forward sharply, gripping her hand with the last of his strength. His face twisted, not with anger, but something more haunting. “You better run... Before Corvane hears about you..."

Of course this is his crap. Fuck me, right?

Angel yanked her hand free with a grimace as he slumped back, the final trace of life draining from his eyes like the last drop of blood from an emptied vein. The quiet in the warehouse pressed in like a held breath, thick with death. Blood pooled beneath her boots, and overhead, the bodies swayed gently on their hook

She rose slowly, expression darkening.

With one last glance at the room of utter carnage, she turned on her heel. Her phone was already in her hand before she reached the threshold, her thumb snapping a picture of the scene behind her. Her thumb subsequently flew across the screen, dialing Griggs.

No answer.

She pressed the phone harder to her ear as it rang, her teeth grinding... Annnd still nothing. Beep.

The air still reeked of blood and rot, clinging to her clothes like a second skin. Holding the phone to her ear, Angel's eyes scanned the empty lot. "You're so full of shit, Griggs." Her voice was cold, even, and low, perhaps more dangerous than if she had shouted. "You said no more lies. That you wouldn’t send me into something blind again."

She stepped outside, her boots crunching on broken concrete. "That was a fucking feeding den. A whole damn nest." The blonde tapped her foot impatiently against the pavement, her other hand twitching with the urge to draw a blade again. "They’re all dead... So you better pay me, jackass. Now." Angel then hung up with a sharp flick of her thumb.

It was a lie.

No den that well-stocked was ever left unguarded for long. More would crawl back soon enough, vengeful and pissed to find their buddies as dead as dirt. But she wasn’t sticking around to be picked off like a rookie for the kind of pay Griggs was offering.

She stormed across the lot, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. The door to her car groaned under her grip as she yanked it open. It creaked in protest, and for a moment it looked like she might rip the damn thing off its hinges. Angel slammed herself down into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel with white-knuckled force.

That’s when her phone screen lit again.

LUTHER – Incoming Call.

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: 46 🪞
🌸 Injuries:

Injuries

🗡 Deep Stab Wound – Inner Forearm:
Took a dagger meant for her chest directly into her forearm. Blade embedded deep, slicing muscle and likely grazing bone.

Symptoms: Intense bleeding, nerve pain, compromised grip strength, nearly unusable arm.

💥 Dagger Hilt Nerve Strike – Same Arm:
Liana delivered a blunt-force strike to the same wounded arm, targeting the nerve center.

Effect: Caused violent spasms, a surge of white-hot pain, and temporary loss of staff control.

👢 Abdominal Kick #1:
Delivered early in the fight, knocking the wind from her lungs and sending her back into a fall.

Injury: Minor bruising and impact trauma; no time to recover before escalation.

💥 Blunt-Force Trauma – Abdomen (Round Two):
After wounding Liana with her claws, Phia was struck again by a full-force kick, this time with devastating intent.

Result: Cracked ribs upon impact, severe internal pain, and possible bruised organs.

💔 Mirror Slam – Back & Head Trauma:
Her body was hurled into a mirror, causing glass to shatter around her.

Likely Effects: Lacerations, mild to moderate concussion, whiplash, and shock.

💣 Face Slam x3 – Wood Frame:
Liana repeatedly smashed Phia’s head into the shattered wood behind her.

Injuries: Scalp bleeding, split lip, bruising across face and brow, potential concussion symptoms worsened.

💀 General Condition:
Phia was left semi-conscious, bleeding from multiple points, her breath labored, body trembling, and suffering from a mix of nerve trauma, internal bruising, broken ribs, and likely concussion.

🌸

Phia stirred slowly, her breath coming in ragged, trembling bursts as her body protested every motion. The room was hazy and painted with a red curtain as blood dripped from her split brow, matting the hair against her temple. Her lip had been split wide open, staining her chin red. Her forearm, punctured and beaten,hung nearly useless at her side, fingers twitching with a stubbornness that defied function. Her abdomen throbbed violently, ribs cracked from the last brutal kick, and each inhale was a test of endurance that bordered on agony. Her back ached where the mirror had shattered beneath her, glass embedded in her skin and bruising blooming deep beneath the surface. Even the softest shift sent fire down her spine, but she moved anyway.

Her legs shook beneath her as she forced herself upright, first onto one elbow, then dragging her good leg underneath herself. For a moment, she swayed, vision swimming with flickering light and shadows that stuttered like a broken dream. A thin trail of blood streaked the tile where she’d fallen. She pressed her uninjured hand to the ground, grounding herself, forcing her lungs to draw in something more than shallow gasps.

Then she heard it.

Liana’s voice, so close, so gentle it made Phia’s stomach turn. The words weren’t meant for her, but they cut sharper than any blade. “Just close your eyes.” And then—“Good girl. Die for me.”

Phia’s pupils dilated instantly. A jolt of adrenaline surged through her broken frame, her battered heart thundering in her ears. Pain blurred. Thought blurred. Only one thing mattered now.

The girl in the stall.

With a raw sound lodged in her throat, Phia crawled, her motion unsteady and agonizing. One knee dragged behind her, slipping on blood-slick tile. Her good hand pulled her forward inch by inch, her broken body lurching across the ground like a creature too stubborn to die. Her fingers shook as she reached the door of the stall, nails scraping against the chipped paint of the metal. With a soft grunt, she pulled it open, the motion wrenching through her ribs like lightning.

She collapsed inside, half-falling, and there she saw her.

Despite every scream from her injuries, she pulled herself the final few inches forward and gathered Talis into her arms, cradling her against her chest as gently as if she were made of glass. Her good arm wrapped around the girl protectively while her wounded one merely hovered, twitching, unable to help.

Phia leaned her cheek to Talis’s hair, trying to give warmth where the world had only offered cruelty. “She's gone.” She informed her weakly.