princess

Z-Team: Operatives of the SDN

ꜱ ᴛ ᴀ ʀ ʙ ᴜ ʀ ꜱ ᴛ

TIME: 0811
LOCATION: SDN Meeting Room
INTERACTIONS: @GingerBobOh @Tae @Oso @FunnyGuy @Infinite Cosmos @DClassified

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“It’ll be a movie, for sure.”

Roxanne hadn’t expected him to reply at all, so even that monotone answer felt like a victory. She held onto the warmth of the notion, smiling to herself as her eyes averted downward.

She returned to picking at her muffin for a moment, then her fingers stalled halfway through the motion when Poe entered. Roxanne straightened a little, trying to look attentive while the dispatcher made her rounds. She tried not to stare at the tattoos framing Poe’s arms when the platinum-blonde paused beside her. (She absolutely stared.)

“Also, the pink cardigan is actually… cute. A good aesthetic distraction from the grim reality of our employment.”

“Oh—um… that’s really nice of you,” Roxanne murmured gratefully, tugging her cuff down over her knuckles as a flush rose to her cheeks. “Thank you.”

Then Murph came in subsequently, and she jumped in her seat. Her fingers curled around her cup like it might keep her anchored through sheer sugar content. Still, she managed a sweet smile as he claimed the head of the table with the confidence of someone who’d never second-guessed a day in his life.

“Good morning…” she offered, lifting her monstrosity in a gesture meant to be welcoming.

A moment later, another newcomer slipped into the room. Roxanne tilted her head, intrigued. His appearance was striking—tail, varsity jacket—and he seemed to know the masked man already, the one Poe had called Reforge.

His golden eyes found hers, and he wiggled his fingers. She blinked, startled, then lifted a hand from her sleeve to return the motion, offering a shy smile that grew with time despite her nerves. But then he followed it with that brutal line aimed at Reforge. Her white irises flicked nervously between them, hoping that no one started yelling this early in the morning.

A sad blonde male walked in next, and she watched him cross the threshold like someone trying not to disturb anything. His tired, sad eyes made her chest tighten. She offered him a hesitant wave—one that she wasn't even sure he saw.

Then came Azaela. Roxanne felt her presence before she registered it. The woman moved as if she belonged in every space she entered. When her hand found Roxanne’s, the gentle squeeze and the pulse of psychic warmth made Roxanne’s breath settle, almost without permission.

“Aw… um—thank you. Really.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You look lovely too. I just… get a little cold in here.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening, Ignis 2
Location: Tough Tavern

_{@Tae@CitrusArms@Potter@Lava Alckon@Samreaper@Tpartywithzombi@ReusableSword}

₱₳Ɽ₮ 2 - ₲₳ⱤⱤ₳₦

Garran had been weighing the room by the way those inside it broke, and the Vikena girl was one of the cleanest fractures in it.

Her eyes hadn’t left the corpse by the hearth from the moment the man hit the floor. Plenty of people looked; plenty flinched and snatched their gazes away. She didn’t. Her stare stayed pinned there. He watched the way her fingers dug into her own skirt under the table, knuckles whitening. Her shoulders shook, but she didn’t bolt, didn’t make a sound—not even when the leg finished folding under the dead man at that wrong angle.

Tears slid steadily down from those blown pupils, over the back of her hand clamped to her mouth. That was the first thing he marked: not the crying, but the silence. He’d seen women sob loud and wild at their first real glimpse of blood. This wasn’t that.

Even then, as she leaned close to murmur to the Edwards boy, her eyes kept dragging back toward the hearth, to the man left cooling on the stone.

A noble heart soft enough to bleed for strangers and stubborn enough to hold its line. A duke’s daughter, thrown miles out of her depth and still trying to make sense of the bodies. Garran filed her away as the kind you didn’t have to touch to use: press her, and the whole table would tighten around her. Threaten her, and you didn’t just own one hostage. You owned everyone who couldn’t stomach watchin’ her break.

The Edwards girl, by contrast, didn’t crack so much as leak. Garran watched her commentary spill out in tipsy dribbles. Rat, coat rack, goats.

It should have irritated him.

Duke Edward’s pretty daughter, plastered out of her mind, no sense of when to shut up, and just enough wit to lace an insult. Her raised hands, her squirming, the way the other nobles kept shoving her back down—it all painted a useful picture.

She was neither brave nor calm. She was unguarded.

The kind who’d blurt something important without realizing it until the noose was already tied.

And somewhere under all that stupid courage, he found himself curious about the exact moment the giggles would die in her throat, and the truth of what was happening would finally force its way in. As the shape of that settled in his mind, her brother’s voice cut in time to give Garran an idea of how to start tightening the screws.

Garran listened without looking at him at first, letting the words wash over the general murmur in his head.

“You speak of us as if we are walking sacks of gold coins…How many burlap sacks have you seen cut up, crushed, and sliced that can still be good at keeping the gold all in one place?”

Smart enough to see the flaw in a blunt man’s cruelty. Smart enough to dress fear up as negotiation. Not smart enough to keep his rank and his leverage out of it.

“Some powerful connections lie beyond this room…” The way his gaze fixed on Garran when he said it told him the rest. A key that knew it was a key.

Garran stepped in closer to their table, boots making no more sound than the settling of the old floorboards. He let his shadow fall over Drake and Ariella both, resting his hand on the back of an empty chair as if he were about to sit down for a friendly chat.

“Burlap’s a poor metaphor, m’lord,” he said mildly. “Gold don’t care what kind o’ sack it sits in, long as it gets where it’s goin’. You’re right on one thing, though.”

He surveyed each of them in turn, slowly, from Drake to Ariella, to Charlotte’s wet cheeks, then back.

“Dead men pay badly,” he conceded. He leaned in just enough that Drake could feel the weight of his attention. “An’ you’re clearly clever enough to pick up that we don’t want you dead, Lord Edwards.”

He tapped his knuckles lightly against the tabletop between Drake’s spread hands. “But there are fates worse than death,” Garran murmured. “A man can live a long time with scars that make every dinner, every ball, every mirror a reminder of one bad evenin’ in a cheap tavern he thought he was too clever to be afraid in.”

He straightened a little, head tilting. “So when you ‘kindly request’ we settle this amicable?” he echoed, a ghost of amusement in the words. “This is amicable. We’re talkin’. Marius isn’t takin’ fingers off your sister to see how high she screams just yet. You drink when we say, you hand over what shines, you keep your kin’s faces more or less the way they walked in.”

He glanced toward the bar where Kalliope stood, then back to Drake. “As for your double whiskey,” Garran finished, tone returning to that bored cadence, “you’ll drink what’s put in front of you, when it’s put there. Consider every swallow a reminder that we’re lettin’ you keep your tongue to taste it.”

His attention was stolen as Maelen approached him slowly, as if her own bones had gained weight in the last few minutes. From where Garran stood, the witch’s work still clung to her. In the firelight, faint darkened veins slithered along her throat and at the corners of her mouth. She ignored the tremor starting in her fingers, though it made the fabric of her skirt twitch when she smoothed it down. Her breath caught once, but enough that her shoulders tightened as if she had swallowed pain and willed it not to show.

She paused beside an empty table and plucked up a stained menu. Then she slid a pair of spectacles from her pocket. The lenses clicked into place on the bridge of her nose. Her eyes swept the table of nobles once more. Then again, slower.

A tiny furrow pinched between her brows; the menu dipped, her wrist dipping with it before she forced it steady again. A bead of sweat traced from her temple down to her jaw before she wiped it away under the guise of adjusting her glasses.

“That table,” she murmured, turning a page she hadn’t really finished.“Too much noise.” Her thumb tapped once against the paper. “Two threads for certain. Maybe three, if one of ’em’s only just findin’ their teeth.” She never looked his way when she spoke. The words slid out on the same breath as a faint sigh.

It was the same table he’d already marked. If the witch’s instinct sung when she glanced that way, that meant his instincts about where the room would break were already on the mark.

His gaze slid off the Vikena girl and the Edwards pair and settled, at last, on the ones who weren’t coming apart at the seams. The first was a beautiful woman in red who had a boar’s pelt over her shoulders; it sat there like an old trophy, not a fashion choice. Her hands lay flat where they were told, but the rest of her was coiled rather than frozen.

The tall man was a different sort of itch.

Earlier, he’d been nursing his beer like a man who didn’t much like getting drunk. Now, with the fire gone wrong and the rules laid out, something in him had turned inward. His head dropped, shoulders hunching, lips moving in a low mutter Garran couldn’t place. He drained the tankard, then sat there breathing too deeply, like a fever had come on all at once.

The strawberry-haired, though—she was the sort Garran kept an eye on. She held herself rigid like the brunette in red, her gaze sweeping the room in deliberate patterns. She obeyed every command without hesitation, yet she had the posture of someone rehearsing obedience. She spoke to her table in murmurs so small they barely stirred her lips. And the way she kept her eyes low but tuned to the witch’s movements, to the door, to the rafters, told him she understood danger more intimately than her clothes suggested.

He’d have to learn more about those three. But not now. The last at the table finally started flapping his lips, proposing they play a drinking game. He tilted his head as he observed the cheeky little grin on the imbecile. Then, Garran huffed out something that might have been a laugh if there’d been any warmth in it.

He suddenly gave a sharp whistle.

Ox moved first. The big man shoved away from the door and waded through the tables, his bulky body parting the crowd. A meaty hand clamped down on Drake’s shoulder and dragged him up out of his seat like he weighed nothing at all.

Garran stepped aside just enough to let Ox haul Lord Edwards forward and shove him up against one of the sturdy posts near the hearth. In the same motion, another of Garran’s men looped a length of rough rope around Drake’s wrists and cinched them tight behind the post, forcing his chest forward.

Only then did Garran turn back to Kazumin. “We’ve barely started, and your little table’s already givin’ me ideas.”

He nodded once toward Drake, trussed in front of the fire like a pig set for turning. “You want a game?” he went on. “Fine. You get one. But we’re playin’ it my way.”

He jerked his chin toward the bar. “Redhead.” He snapped, “Keep their cups full. That table, there. Big mouths.”

To Ox, without looking: “Stoke the fire.”

The big man shoved another log into the hearth. Flames leapt higher, heat rolling out in a wave that made sweat bead at temples. One of Garran’s crew took a black iron poker from its hook and drove its tip into the coals until they hissed and glowed dull red.

Another man followed in Ox’s wake, going about the room scooping up and demanding whatever he could: pocket watches, brooches, cufflinks —all into a burlap bag.

Then Garran returned his full attention to Kazumin. “Here’s how it goes,” he said, strolling back to the table casually. “Your man there—” he tipped his head toward Drake, “—is our measure.”

His gaze walked over each of them in turn: Kazumin, Ariella, Charlotte, Olivia, Stratya, Roman—anyone close enough to be counted as sitting in their cluster.

“You drink when I say,” Garran continued. “Ox’ll call it. Tankard comes down in front of you, you lift it, and you don’t put it back down ’til it’s empty.”

His fingers drummed once on the edge of their table. “No sippin’. No dawdlin’. No spillin’ half of it down your dress.” His eyes grazed Ariella, then Charlotte, then slid back to Kazu. “You stop early, you choke, you make me bored… Lord Edwards gets a lesson in how bad hot iron hurts.”

At the hearth, the iron poker was already glowing brighter, the very tip gone to a menacing orange-white color. The man holding it rotated it lazily, waiting.

Garran’s smile never reached his eyes. He angled his head, considering the group like pieces on a board. “First round,” he decided. “Three full tankards each. You clear yours clean—fine. Redhead’ll come ’round an’ top you again when I say. You balk? He screams… And if you’re thinkin’ to be clever and throw it back up? You paint the floor, we count that the same as spillin’. He gets burned for that, too.”

The man with the poker pulled it from the coals and gave it a little experimental swing. “You asked who’s game,” he said softly. “Congratulations. You just volunteered your whole table.”

He turned his head toward the hearth. “Show ’em what brave buys, then.”

The man with the iron didn’t need more than that. A few strides and he was in front of Drake. The tip of the poker glowed, the heat filling the air between them.

The poker hissed as he applied it to Drake’s back. The smell of scorched fabric rolled out in a wave that made a few nearby patrons gag and look away.

“That,” he said, voice flat, “is me bein’ gentle.”

Roses and Daggers - Looking for new players!

Maybe up for this. Was thinking Varian, but if needed I can choose another kingdom.

@Remram

Are you perhaps interested in a male?

I think we could use a few males. I will accept another varian prince.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening, Ignis 2
Location: Tough Tavern

Interaction:@Tae

₱₳Ɽ₮ 1 - ₥₳ⱤłɄ₴

Marius couldn’t help but imagine what that beautiful face might look like if he had carved it apart.

Not some messy hack job, of course, but in nice, clean steps. The corner of her mouth first, to see how her smile looked when it could no longer close… Then the eyelid peeled back just enough that blinking hurt. He pictured her teeth showing through a slit in her cheek when she tried to talk. He counted, in his head, how many cuts it would take before even people who loved her had to look twice to recognize what was left.

The thought made his pupils flare as a childlike delight filled him.

After Garran had given him the nod, he turned toward her slowly, savoring it, an amused “hmm,” slipping past his lips as they parted into a satisfied grin. The razor’s chain stopped spinning mid-sway, and the sudden stillness drew eyes.

He stepped in closer to the woman with the scarlet hair, boots whispering over sticky boards, until Kalliope could smell the sour mix of sweat, and blood rolling off him. His bloody hand settled on the bar between hers with a wet tap, fingers spreading lazy-wide, hemming hers in without touching.

“Look at you,” he breathed, grin widening. “Storm blowin’ the roof off, an’ you’re still tryin’ to bargain. What a brave girl.”

His gaze walked over her piece by piece.

Hands. Throat. Eyes.

Her pulse seemed to jump harder in her neck the longer he stared. He raised his voice just enough for the nearest tables to hear. “‘Any piece o’ my body you choose,’” he repeated, tasting the words. “You lot hear that?”

Heads dipped lower. A couple of drunker patrons flicked their eyes her way: better the brave mouth than them.

Marius leaned in until his lips were almost brushing her ear. He bit his own lower lip, pleased with the sight of her, his eyes dragging over her once more. A slick finger traced along her jaw, painting the line of it red as his tone dropped. “You’re thinkin’ I take those sweet fingers,” he murmured. “Maybe an ear if I’m feelin’ playful. Quick little snip, you hobble out with a story an’ a scar.”

He chuckled low. “When you say ‘any piece,’ all I hear is, ‘Marius, love, don’t stop ’til you ain’t curious no more.’”

The razor snapped open in his free hand with a flick. He slid his fingers between hers for just a moment more, squeezing her hand like she was an old lover he’d missed. Then he let go, took his time spreading her fingers out one by one, arranging them neatly on the wood like he was setting a display.

He turned the blade in his grip, point angling straight down.

THUNK.

The first jab came hard and sudden, the razor plunging into the wood between her thumb and forefinger. The board jumped under their hands, splinters kicking up. A couple of nearby patrons flinched like they’d felt it go through bone.

Marius’ pupils blew wide as he wrenched it from the bar. For a moment, he wasn’t in the tavern at all; he was somewhere behind his eyes, counting. One finger off, then the next. The sound each would make hitting the floor. The way her scream would change when there were gaps where her knuckles used to be. Whether she’d watch her own hands while it happened, or squeeze her eyes shut and miss the show.

The thought made his breath hitch in a little laugh he didn’t quite let out.

“Now…” he said finally as if she was near and dear to him, “I wouldn’t go twitchin’ on me, dove. Not unless you’re real eager to find out which piece I fancy first.”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Each tap was exactly between two of her fingers. The spacing was perfect, a metronome of how close he could come without touching her.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

On the last one, he twisted his wrist.

The blade turned on its edge and kissed the side of her pinkie finger before she could flinch. The cut was shallow but purposeful.

Blood welled, beading along the curve of her finger and dripping down the side.

Marius’ grin was feral.

“There it is,” he whispered, eyes never leaving her face. “You feel that? Barely nothin’. But your head’s already racin’, ain’t it? If that’s a start, where does he stop?”

He pivoted the razor again, letting the tip drag up, slow, along the inside of her wrist. It pressed just enough to scratch the skin without breaking it.

“You thought you were movin’ yourself closer to the exit,” he went on, and now the sweetness in his voice curdled, the speed of his speech intensifying, “Walk the room, count the bodies, slip yourself where the bad guys ain’t lookin’.”

He clicked his tongue, mock scolding. “You’re not the first rat who thought learnin’ the layout made ’em bigger than the trap.”

His tone flicked up into an almost sing-song cadence, words tripping off his tongue with manic cheer. “You see paths,” he crooned, “I see veins. You see tables, I see places to strap ’em. You’re dreamin’ two moves ahead—”

He suddenly slammed the razor’s spine down beside her hand, hard enough to make the bar jump and a few people yelp.

He didn’t nick her. Not that time.

“—I’m thinkin’ ten screams deep.”

He burst into jarring laughter. It wasn’t a bark or a cackle; it was reminiscent of the ecstatic laugh of someone watching fireworks.

Then it died instantly. His face emptied, eyes going flat as he brought the blade up and laid it along the side of her throat. “Let me paint it for you,” he said, every syllable slow. “You spill so much as a tear’s worth of drink, I don’t take a piece. I take…identity.”

His eyes brightened, feverish. “By the time you’ve cost me a barrel, we’ll play a fun game. I’ll walk you down this room an’ ask: Which one of you knows her?”

He smiled wider, teeth bared. “If they hesitate… your mother, your best fuckin’ friend… that’s when we know we did good work.”

Someone at a nearby table choked on their own breath. The barmaid let out a broken noise and slapped both hands over her mouth, eyes squeezed shut as if that could shut out the picture he was painting.
Marius’ gaze never left Kalliope.

“An’ you offered that to me,” he said almost tenderly. “You put the knife in my hand and said, ‘Do your worst.’”

That was when Garran moved.

He didn’t rush in like a savior. He moved into the space at Kalliope’s other side with the calm of a man arriving to check a shipment. Up close, he still looked like someone who should be counting coin, not bodies.

“She’s right about the girl,” Garran said, almost conversational, nodding toward the barmaid. “Hands shakin’ like that, we lose a week’s takin’ to the floor.”

The barkeep flinched, shame and terror written together on her expression.

His gaze went back to Kalliope,“You want the tap?” he said to Kalliope. “You get it. Go refill everyone’s tankards.”

Garran leaned in just enough that she could feel the dry warmth of his breath at her ear. “You slip?” he went on, tone still maddeningly calm. “I don’t start with you. I start with your little friends. One spilled drink, one person screams. Two spilled, two scream. You get the count wrong, we don’t. By the time we’re done, you’ll know exactly how much your clever little gamble cost before razor–hand here comes back t’ finish writin’ on your skin.”

He straightened, giving her a short, brisk nod toward the taps. “Move.”

Marius shoved the barmaid roughly into a barrel in the background. She collapsed onto it, hands clamping uselessly over her mouth to smother sobs. The patrons around her flinched away like she carried bad luck on her skin, shoulders hunching as if distance alone might keep Garran’s new bargain from landing on them next.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Marina "Marnie" Camilia

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P R I N C E S S . M A R I N A . C A M I L I A

^{Age 23 · Female · Pansexual · "Marnie"}

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A P P E A R A N C E

Height: 5’2" Weight: ~120 lbs Eye Color: Blue-Violet Hair Texture: Collarbone length, thick, wavy; refuses to stay tamed. Hair Color: Dark auburn Skin Color: Fair, easily flushed by cold, laughter, and fury. Facial Details: Freckles dusted over nose and cheeks; expressive brows

Distinguishing Features: ⋆ Faint scars crisscrossing her hands and forearms Clothing Preferences: — Public: Beautiful gowns of black, evergreen, violet; structured bodices with hidden slits for movement, fur-lined cloaks, sturdy boots disguised under pretty hems. — Private / Training: Rolled sleeves, trousers, leather boots; anything she can tumble and spar in.

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P S Y C H O L O G Y

Willingness toward friends (1–5): 4 – will throw herself between them and any blade, literal or social Willingness toward romance (1–5): 5 – soft-hearted and easily smitten, but fiercely loyal once she chooses Sexuality: Pansexual Main Ambition: To protect Lucian, Askel and Sylvia Hobbies: • Collecting bugs and studying them. She has quite a few. • Swordplay, daggers, and slightly-too-enthusiastic brawling • Climbing anything that looks even vaguely climbable • Listening to tavern music from the shadows instead of inside • Doodling or writing in her diary

Likes: • Lantern-lit snow and quiet streets • Rooftops, balconies, cliffs, and any high place with a view • Sparring sessions that leave her muscles aching • Lucian’s rare, unguarded laughter • Adventure • Traveling • Dogs • Bugs • Doodling and Sketching Portraits • Books about animals and plants • Compliments • Very long hugs from siblings • Taverns • Sylvia's excitement • Any meals involving potatoes • Silly pranks on siblings and staff (swapped boots, harmless dyes, salted tea) Dislikes: • Anyone who would dare hurt her precious siblings or parents • Having her height pointed out • Not having the last word • Math • HATES the idea of ANYONE looking in her diary • Being told to stay behind • The feeling of arriving too late • Watching Lucian drown himself • When it gets too quiet • Those who engage in cruel crimes • Others' hands getting too close to her throat • Being alone, though she'll never admit it

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P E R S O N A L I T Y

Marina is probably one of the most stubborn girls you'll ever meet.

Incredibly ambitious and motivated, she keeps her eye on the goal and charges at it like a berserker. As a child, she was endlessly restless: quick to laugh, quicker to talk, and forever climbing something she wasn’t supposed to. Then she changed in her tween years. Since then, Marina hated being alone. She always drifted toward Lucian, Askel or Sylvia, “accidentally” ending up wherever they were. She’d want to sleep in their bedrooms (even on the floor), linger in hallways, and fill silence with chatter just to keep the walls from feeling too close.

To this day, she's bold, witty, and certain of herself. Marnie's known to be sassy and even cheeky at times. She can be a bit of an outspoken hothead at times, and even sometimes a brat, stomping off to her room when she doesn't win an argument. However, underneath the bravado is a deeply compassionate girl who attaches fiercely to the people she loves. Lucian, Askel and Sylvia sit at the center of that devotion. She's always been rather sweet on those she cares about and extremely thoughtful. Not to mention, she has a deep love for adventure and new experiences. Marina loves to make others laugh and gets a kick out of playing pranks, especially on Sylvia.

For years, Marina was a source of sunshine energy in the Camilia family.

Then Sophia died.

The bubbly noise softened into something quieter. She still laughs, still jokes when the moment calls for it — but there’s a weight behind her eyes now. Everyone noted how much Marnie had become significantly more intense as a person in her twenties. She became seemingly overfixated on looking after Lucian.

Despite the dampened glow, Marina isn’t joyless. She’s stubbornly optimistic. She genuinely believes the world can be better and is willing to bleed in pursuit of that belief. She throws herself into danger with reckless enthusiasm when others are at risk.

Emotionally, she’s far softer than she pretends.

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B A C K G R O U N D

What Kingdom are you from, and what town were you born in?: Varian Kingdom / Breoven Current occupation: Princess / Big Brother Protector! Any past occupations?: • Part-time Vigilante Active Relatives: • King and Queen Camilia (parents) • Prince Lucian Camilia (elder brother) • Prince Askel Camilia (elder brother) • Princess Sylvia Camilia (younger sister) Skills: • Swordplay & brawling – not perfect at this, but she has a few years of trying on her belt • Acrobatics & urban mobility – climbing, leaping, balancing • Disguise & misdirection • Noble etiquette – weaponizing courtesy and pretty words in political arenas • Well-educated about bugs • Drawing

“The dutiful princess” “The Lantern of Breoven”

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History Summary:
Princess Marina Camilia was born one of the middle children to Queen Rosa and King Alixandre. From the start, she was a spitfire—full of passion and a curiosity far beyond her years. She trailed after Lucian and Sylvia with bright chatter, restless energy, and a fierce eagerness to belong wherever her siblings were. Lucian was the brave, strong big brother she idolized and followed like a little duckling, Askel was the sweet brother she loved to spend time with, and Sylvia was her favorite little sister, whom she doted on endlessly.

However, her view of the world cracked early.

Her best friend had been one of the kitchen boys, one of many homeless children King Alixandre had taken in. His name was Cecil, and for years he had been one of her very best friends. It was always him, Marina, Sophia, Lucian, Askel, Sylvia, Ambrose, and sometimes Lady Mina Blackwood in their little circle.

Marnie had trusted him completely.

Then one day, when they were twelve, he led her into the woods and turned on her without warning. His hands closed around her throat and he nearly killed her before someone else intervened. Marina survived, but the betrayal lodged itself deep. She never understood why, and she never saw Cecil again.

Marina never told anyone, either.

After that, silence unnerved her. Closed doors made her palms sweat. She clung to her siblings with a desperation she disguised as enthusiasm. Even so, she improved as she grew into her teens. She and Lucian spent much of their time with Sophia, whom Marina still insists to this day must have been an angel sent from the heavens.

Years later, Lucian took an interest in Sophia and married her. Sophia’s presence softened the palace, and Lucian’s happiness gave Marina the impression (despite her own strong feelings) that everything was exactly where it ought to be.

Then the day came when everything broke. Marina did not see how Sophia died; she only remembered Lucian’s scream and following it to the sight of what remained of their beloved girl. The grief hollowed her out. She carried a heavy, private guilt.

And Lucian hardened. He shut her out, even as Marina tried again and again to reach him. She changed in her own way, too. When she wasn’t trying to cheer Lucian up, she trained with the knights, learning to wield a sword and defend herself. Even when she was barely trained, she began sneaking out in disguise at night to pick fights with criminals—not out of rebellion, but to teach herself how to face monsters like the one who had taken Sophia. To protect her family.

Her first intervention was a drunken noble cornering a maid. The second was a carriage transporting girls for reasons she did not want to know. Each time, Marina stepped in. Each time, she felt something inside her that was steadier than fear.

A few rumors began to spread about a hooded figure. It never became anything famous, but some in Breoven whispered of a protector who sabotaged cruelty in the dark. They called her the Lantern of Breoven, because she brought light into the shadows.

Marina never claimed the stories. In her early years, she was sloppy in her work and lost more fights than she won, stumbling into more than one traumatic situation—all in the name of becoming someone worthy enough to protect the people she loved, and the kingdom she loved.

But she was not the only one with a secret. She knew Lucian was hiding something, and he grew harder and harder to reach.

When their parents decided to send Lucian to Caesonia for the Courting Season, there was no chance Marina would let her beloved brother go alone. Over her dead body would he face anything alone ever again. Not only because Marina loved him, but because Sophia had loved him too.

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Questionnaire – WIP

Roses and Daggers - Looking for new players!

If one is available sure. Other wise thinking of Duke or minor royal noble (Brother, sister... Etc.) @princess

@Mr Irony II

Yeah, you definitely are welcome to be one. I will PM you.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Sean & Angel

PART 3

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“We’ve been expecting you.” The famous words quoted by super villains when they've turned the tables on their mark.

A dense fog crept inward toward them in tendrils, swirling near their boots. Within seconds, it thickened, curling up the legs of tables, pooling over crates. The air grew heavy, tasting more and more chemical as the haze climbed higher.

The room was spinning, an effect that lingered from the fumes he and Angel were inhaling. We’ve been made. Shit, I should have known this was too good to be true... My mask isn't sealed and I'm feeling… light? He turned to run up the stairs but stumbled so hard he had to catch himself by leaning his body against the closest wall. Come on, Sean, get a fucking grip! Instead of answering the enemy that lurked behind their gaseous weapon, Sean made it his priority to regain his focus. That, and making them repeat themselves would offer some extra time for the pair to figure out how to get out of whatever mess they’d gotten themselves into.

“Ah, shit, cover your mouth! Now!” Angel called to him. Despite her concern for him, her lips twitched as if wanting to curve upward anyhow. Did these idiots really think their stupid smoke would affect her?

She stepped forward instead of back. “Cute trick,” she called to the figures ahead, “Too bad, it’s wasted on me.”

The shapes fanned out, boots ringing on metal grating and then settling into formation on the floor. Angel picked her target and went for it. One moment, she stood in the fog. Next, she was a blur cutting through it. Her first swing drove toward a knee joint. The blade slid against his armor and skidded off with a sharp scrape. The man barely staggered as his leg braced.

Her brows flicked upward, and she pivoted, letting the momentum carry her into a second strike toward his ribs. This time, another figure slid in between them, catching her wrist. The grip was hard and unyielding. For a split second, she pulled back instinctively, expecting human resistance and the give of bone beneath tendons. But there was none.

The bastard didn't even grunt.

A dull ache bloomed in her forearm where his fingers dug in. She twisted out of his hold regardless, using her own strength to slip free, but it took more effort than it should have. Her shoulders felt heavier, and by the time she’d recovered, a third shape had stepped into her periphery, cutting off her escape. A shot was supposed to ring— a hero in the shape of a silver bullet should have saved her some time, but Sean didn't trust his aim, and he-

It was an unspoken thing. A feeling, and also a weakness that kept Sean unable to act. There was no saviour of metallic silver… just the sinister fumes that helped blur the scene he couldn't stomach.

That very fog climbed higher, past Angel’s knees now, swirling around her thighs. Warmth tickled at the back of her skull, and her body felt heavier than usual, causing her to stagger. Yet she paid no mind. Angel flashed her teeth and lunged again, feinting left, then darting right. Her blade sliced toward the seam between plate and shoulder. The man she aimed for turned into it, letting the metal take the glancing blow. The impact shuddered up her arm, numbing her fingers.

They were meeting her step for step—as if they had studied her.

Thud! Sean's body hit the floor like slab stone.

The sound snapped Angel’s head around. She only had time for her eyes to widen and for Sean’s name to die on her tongue. A fist immediately slammed into her core, folding her in half and hurling her into the wall hard enough to rattle the concrete.

The worst part was how easily her blades left her hands.

For a moment, all she could hear was the roar in her ears. Pain bloomed through her ribs as she slid down the wall to her knees. Her vision swam, but she pushed to her feet anyway.

The next hit came in, and this time, Angel lurched sideways on instinct, the punch grazing her shoulder instead of her jaw.

BZZZ. BZZZ. Her pocket suddenly vibrated against her hip.

Angel was quick to maneuver herself some distance away while her hand slapped clumsily at her jacket. Who the fuck—

Her fingers closed around the phone, and she yanked it out. The name flashing up at her made her pause, and she jabbed the accept button. She quickly brought the phone to her ear, already staggering a step back as a dark shape advanced through the fog.

“Luther?” Her voice came out rougher than she meant it to. “Luther, are you there?”

The connection crackled. “—th… Luther… we… your ass—…underground… vamp—… bitten—”

The next blow drove into her side as if she had been struck with a sledgehammer. Pain exploded through her ribs, and she screamed, the sound escaping her before she could choke it back. The phone jolted from her hand, clattering across the floor and skidding into the fog, its screen still glowing faintly where it landed.

Her knees hit the ground again. She planted one hand, tried to push up again, but her arm shook. She felt humiliatingly weak.

Angel didn’t understand. How could this even affect her?

Bootsteps approached, slow and unhurried, like whoever was coming didn’t consider her a threat at all.

Angel reached blindly for her blade, fingers closing around the hilt even as her vision dimmed. She managed to lift it a few inches before her strength faltered, and it slipped from her grip. The darkness finally drowned her vision. Her body crumpled, collapsing sideways onto the floor with a soft thud, blonde hair spilling around her.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

🌸 Race: Half-Elf 🌸
🦋 Class: Druidic Mystic 🦋
🍄 Location: The Seaside Tailor Stall 🍄
🍃 Interactions: Corin @Lava Alckon Menzai @Samreaper Arya @Potter Bastion @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.
✦ Amulet with an unknown crest
✦ Thick Magenta Hair – Flowing in long, heavy waves with many braids, tiny beads, and blossoms braided throughout.
✦ Arm Jewelry – Vine-wrapped armlets and bracelets studded with glistening stones in violet and turquoise hues.
✦ White off-the-shoulder crop top
✦ Mistpetal Skirt
✦ Waist Adornments – A 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: 0 🪞
🌸 Injuries: Phia is exhausted, weak, and achy. 🌸

Phia emerged from the dressing room, the top and skirt she’d chosen now fitting her just right. She had, of course, added a bit of her own charm…but nothing too drastic this time. Still, she came twirling out from behind the silk curtain, the pink skirt blooming around her like she was in the center of a large flower. The sight made her gasp in pure delight.

Rising onto her tippy toes, she clasped her hands to her chest and gave a tiny, excited hop, her jewelry chiming. She then stretched the skirt out with both hands, admiring the way it moved.

Then—very seriously—she looked to the shopkeeper expectantly. “This is good, right?”

His teal eyes widened, then slowly narrowed as he dragged a hand over his mouth, stunned. He stepped closer, circling her and analyzing her.

“…Sweet blossom. It’s not merely good. It’s a miracle.”

He flicked a wrinkle from her sleeve. “The transformation is so striking I may actually weep. You walked into my stall looking like a forest gremlin who got stuck in a shrub.”

He placed a hand over his heart. “And now? Now you look like you have finally embraced civilization.”

She continued to stare at him, so he softly added with a sigh, “Yes, darling. It’s good.” With that settled, the elf turned and drifted toward Menzai, gesturing for him to step aside for a private word. Phia watched curiously, wondering if Menzai was about to choose new clothing as well.

Though her gaze did slide as something green caught her eye.

Phia's eyebrows lifted, and she commented immediately to Arya, “You have a frog on your head.” She was silent a moment more, then she provided the tiefling a small smile. “I like it very much.”

Roses and Daggers - Looking for new players!

If you have more in time with Varian culture I would like a spot.

@Mr Irony II

Sure! What are you thinking? A prince or something else?

{ ᴀ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ & ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ }

Hello! I am rather interested in this. I shall read in depth when I return home today. C: