princess

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening, Ignis 2
Location: Tough Tavern

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

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Garran lifted his hand. “Alright,” he said calmly. “Round two.”

His eyes flicked once to the still-smoking brand on Drake’s back, then returned to the table, lingering only long enough to watch the looter step in front of the stairs.

“Same rules,” Garran continued. “Faster this time. No pauses. No mercy for mistakes.”

He nodded toward the hearth.

The poker slid back into the coals with a hiss.

“Tankards up.”

Ariella glanced down at the stein as the table and glass seemed to move like a wave of the ocean. Her eyes slowly blinking then opened as she attempted to focus, but it was no use.

Just before they began, Marius’s giggling stole the room’s attention. Some had already noticed him snickering through the first round—barely holding it in.

His pupils were wide. A soft, childish delight warmed his chest as his eyes stayed fixed on Kalliope.

He drifted close enough that she could catch his sour breath and set his blood-smeared fingertips on the bar with a wet, casual tap.

“Mm.” The sound was small—almost appreciative. His gaze moved over her patiently: hands, throat, eyes. Then his mouth curved, faintly.

“You spoke before as if you’re untouchable.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“That’s sweet,” he murmured, as if confiding in an old friend. “Makes it easier to pick the moment you finally understand you’re not.”

His eyes drifted past her shoulder—to the table, to Drake bound at the post, to the trembling barmaid, to the men watching with their hands flat—then returned to Kalliope with a wretched smile.

“Garran,” he said softly, polite as anything, “let me have the ones who fail.” A pause followed his words—just long enough for the room to imagine what that meant.

“Not now,” he added, almost thoughtful. “Later. When they’re tired.”

His gaze dipped, briefly, to Kalliope’s hands.“And her,” he finished, “She’s mine.”

Then Marius stepped back, letting the razor chain sway once as he turned away, as if she’d already been handled.

Garran’s expression didn’t change. He simply nodded to Ox—who raised his hand, and the room drank.

Ari’s heart was a drum in her chest, hammering faster with every scream, every cruel strike that echoed from Drake through the bar. Her eyes shifted to Charlotte as she struggled, knowing what was coming next as her own hand trembled, attempting to lift her glass.

Charlotte was the first to raise her tankard, her hand shaking as she lifted it. The panic from the last round still sat heavy in her chest, her breathing uneven, no matter how she tried to steady herself. She drank anyway, driven by desperation not to fail Drake again.

But even the first swallow went wrong. She spluttered, coughing as foam spilled over the rim, and instead of stopping, she forced herself to keep going, tilting the tankard higher in a frantic attempt to make it work, but her throat locked.

She lurched forward as she started choking suddenly, and the chair tipped beneath her. Then she collapsed off the chair, palms on the floor, the tankard clattering away. Charlotte clawed at the ground, chest convulsing, tears streaming as she gasped uselessly for air that wouldn’t come.

Laughter blurred around her, her world narrowing to nothing but the desperate need to breathe.

Ari’s heart dropped into her stomach as her glassy eyes shot to Drake, the color disappearing from her face.

Drake softly mouthed a single word as he watched her fumble. ”No…”

He had watched with horror as rough hands had suddenly seized the back of Charlotte’s dress and yanked her upright as Winston hauled her hard like dead weight. The sudden movement made the room spin violently; bile surged up her chest before she could stop it.

She deliberately managed to turn her head before she retched—it splattered across Winston’s face and chest, right into his eyes. For a brief moment, despite herself, the corners of her lips twitched upward at the sound of his furious roar.

Immediately, blinded and still roaring, he grabbed her by the hair and drove her forward. Then he smashed her head into the tabletop.

The impact broke through the noise of the tavern.

Across the table, even while she continued her chug, golden light glinted in Stratya’s eyes, her gaze straining to track Winston as her head tilted back with her drink.

”Hey! Such manners are not-GAH!” Drake’s protest was cut short by the heat of the poker riding against his skin. As the tool pierced and threatened to break the first layer, he was reminded that these games—these “rules”—are all a farce. An excuse to do wicked against the kinder people of the world.

He looked at Charlotte’s head as it came back up from the impact, making a note of Winston’s outlandish strike against a lady. Each sin they committed, another strike in Edwards' mental book of judgment.

A sharp sensation split his posture, as flesh gave way to metal, trickles of blood seeped into Drake’s clothes. Burning pains were mixed with stings unlike anything he had experienced as the spike slipped and took more than the man bargained for. Drake’s binds pushed against the pillar—his back arching in protest to the new wound.

“Are you just resorting to stabbing me now? Is burning me not enough?” In a snide rebuttal, the man simply pushed the hot metal into the wound as Drake shouted in pain. “Just shut the hell up you whiney lil git.”

Dropping her glass, Ari barreled through the chaos, her bare feet slipping over spilled ale and shattered glass, cutting up her skin as she trailed blood behind her. Her fiery hair whipping wildly as she weaved her way with unsteady movements towards her brother.

There he was, Drake, tied to the chair, bruised, bleeding, and utterly exposed to the cruelty of these men. The sight made something inside her snap as the man pressed the metal into his wound.

“No.No!” she hissed, tears stinging her eyes. Without thinking, she threw herself at Drake, wrapping her arms tightly around his chest, catching the man off guard, so that he stumbled just enough.

Her body pressed against Drake’s, shielding him from them, every ounce of her strength focused on keeping him safe. The blood from his wound stained her dress and hair as she held onto him for dear life. Her forehead buried in the crook of his neck, her hands clenched around his broad shoulders as if sheer force could stop the torment.

She whispered, low and trembling, words meant only for him, barely audible over the din of chaos. Through her muffled, drunk whimpers and tears, knowing everything was about to change.

“I’m sorry…I love you…”

The following words came to her with ease, as if she always knew them. As if they were always there just waiting to be said…

“Mentis Fulgur.”

Silence followed.

The syllables slipped from her lips like sparks igniting a storm. The bar went silent for the briefest heartbeat, a vacuum that sucked all sound into the sudden stillness. And then the air tore.

A wave of telekinetic energy burst outward from Ari, concentrated, fierce, and wild. Chairs flew, tables splintered, and some of the attackers were hurled back like rag dolls. Nearby patrons got thrown out of their chairs, screaming in surprise. Wine tankards smashed midair; screams of surprise and pain reverberated off the walls. Every thought and focus of her enemies scattered, disoriented by the sheer force of her power.

And Ari… collapsed.

Her tiny frame went limp, her body falling slowly at first as her grip on him loosened. She finally crumbled against Drake’s feet, her limbs slack as exhaustion claimed her. Her hair spilled over the floor, like a pool of molten red that spread across the ground.

The power she had unleashed lingered like an echo in the air. The bar was wrecked, attackers were bruised and dazed. And in the center of it all was Ari, collapsed along the floor in front of her brother.

The second Ariella’s words had left her mouth, Garran had felt the air change—and then the force hit him full in the chest. It ripped the ground out from under him; his boots slipped, and he was thrown backward, shoulder and spine jarring against the boards as the breath was punched out of him in one hit. For the moment, he lay there stunned, ears ringing, watching the ceiling beams wobble above him while chairs scraped and something shattered nearby.

Ox took the blast too—his boots skidding out, his balance breaking for the first time all night. His huge mass went lurching backward in a stagger as he tried to plant himself and hold, but the slick floorboards betrayed him, and he slammed back into the pillar.

The very same pillar Marius had already claimed as his.

The moment the air snapped outward from Ariella, Marius had reacted upon hearing her words the way a dock rat does when the tide yanks at him: not by fighting the pull, but by grabbing something. The razor was already in his hand, and he drove it fast into the post near his stool with a solid thunk, burying steel deep into the wood. The chain followed immediately—slicking around the pillar in a quick loop, links rattling as he hooked it fast, using the weight of that embedded blade as an anchor point. The blast still hit him; it slammed into his ribs and shoulders and tried to peel him off the floor anyway, boots sliding, coat snapping, his body yanked taut against the chain. Marius clung there with both hands like a delighted parasite, and he laughed—tipped his head back against the pillar and let out another chuckle like being nearly blown off his feet was the funniest joke in the world.

And Ox recovered fast—too big to stay down. He shook it off with a roll of his shoulders as he hauled himself upright again, legs braced wide, jaw set, eyes snapping back toward Ariella and Drake.

Behind the bar, Moira had slammed hard into the shelves, while Maelen had dropped low, ducking under the counter with her hands over her head.

Then there was Merrill—his scream climbing, cracking, turning animal as he thrashed inside the hearth while the fire ate away at his flesh.

He’d been unlucky enough to be thrown straight into it, his head clipping the stone hard enough to knock the breath right out of him, and in that same instant, the flames climbed his chest and shoulders like they’d been waiting. He tried to scramble out on instinct, palms skidding, elbows jerking, but every movement only dragged him through more heat. The tavern erupted into horrified screams as people bore witness to his agony; they saw his skin blister and char, his face becoming a gruesome, raw red under the peeling burn, his pupils blown wide with pure, helpless agony. And then the smell hit—burning cloth, burning hair, that sickening sweet reek of someone being cooked alive—it was so thick it felt like it slapped the whole room. Patrons gagged, eyes watering, throats closing up. The room felt suddenly smaller.

---

By the time the smell reached her, Stratya was already in motion. When Ariella had gotten up to run to her brother, Captain Durmand had taken that as a cue, and rose from her seat as she chugged. She was just about done. Whatever happened, this incident was going to come to an immediate end. Amber disappeared down her throat. When the magicked shockwave hit her, her footing was already quite wide, it gave her the foundation she needed to stay upright while her hand snapped to grip the edge of the table.

And what luck, her chug was freshly done. Her ammunition was ready.

As the heavy vessel fell from her lips, the Fury began to flow. The crackling golden light that filled her eyes told of a raging magic that filled her body and made the urge to act nigh irresistible. As Fury in her bones rose into her muscles, as it flowed from her heart to her fingers and toes, her training kicked in. Her body did not tense with the raging wave of magic and emotion; her judgment remained above the intoxicating ocean of frustration and anger and wrath. Compassion gave her the buoyancy to stay above the poisons of even Righteous Fury, and an entire childhood of training let that compassion withstand the tempest.

Her flagon was guided down, back, up, and at last around, its course aligned with magicked strength for the archer high in the rafters. She did not watch for it to make an impact; there was no time.

With her left hand, Stratya pointed her palm at the archer on the stairs and made a show of spinning about once as though she were catching something from the air while she whispered, “Objicerre invocarre.” The bolt from the archer’s crossbow appeared in her hand along with a singing pain. She passed the object to her right hand.

Armed now, the captain rounded the table and stabbed Winston with the stolen bolt before kicking out his knee and driving her left elbow into his back. Her eyes snapped to Ox, who’d been pushed between her and Marius, and the big lug even turned to face away. Big mistake. And yet..

By then, she had registered the screaming from the fire. Her eyes caught sight of the man. The Fury wanted him to burn, but..

Years ago. They had spotted great plumes of smoke, the sign they were already too late. Indeed, when they arrived, the remnants of what had been were slowly toddling and crying aimlessly away from the horror, burned and hopeless, deep in despair.

Captain Durmand bolted past Ox and to the fire. She reached in with a gloved hand fearlessly and grabbed a limb before she pulled him up and out, high over her head where she could hold him aloft with both hands. She pivoted sharply and called, “OX!” and threw the poor fellow at the beast of burden of a man. “You werrk ferr me nao. Pu’ tha’ mahn ou’!”

---

Every sound and action around him threatened to break his concentration as they were served the next round. Roman knew he couldn’t stop what he had started; the magic was pooled and ready to be released. When he saw Charlotte start to choke from the corner of his eye, he felt himself straining, resisting the rage that boiled inside him. When Winston grabbed her, he felt himself nearly crush the mug in his hand and shut his eyes in an attempt to steady himself.

It was an attempt that made him miss what happened next: the shuffling of feet and moving chairs beside him. Ari and Stratya were moving. Caught off guard, he opened his eyes to see Stratya making moves against the archers first, judging by her posture, while Ari threw herself onto her brother.

Roman pivoted low out from behind the chair when the blast hit him, pushing him off balance. He rolled and recovered against the wall just in time to lock eyes with their witch and cast his spells. In his experience, the wordless spells he used were always powerful, yet not as refined as a spoken spell. This always added some randomness, some unknown metric, some wild magic to his spells. The cost was always higher—the cost of making the will and voice of the gods manifest.

The first of these spells only the witch could see. His glowing yellow eyes fixated on her like a predator hunting its prey. For her, all light in the room vanished. Those same yellow eyes fixated on her in the dark, then one pair became many, then hundreds. Unblinking, filled with hatred and rage, they were followed by the sound of laughter, first from her companions, then growing to a cacophony of hundreds of voices laughing at her, loud enough to deafen her to the world around her.

The second spell shifted. It was still a distraction but focused on causing fear and panic. He would need it to be big, draw attention, and be monstrous.

“YOUR SHADOWS ARE MINE!” Roman shouted, his body shaking with rage and adrenaline he could not contain. Shadows rushed from all across the floor to him, coating him in a flat darkness that began to bulge and pool. It enveloped him in a growing mass of writhing and swirling shadows. Human and animal forms alike formed in the mass, trying to escape it, pulling at each other, pushing and growing the mass further.

Hand, foot, and claw latched, pushed, and pulled like a nightmare manifested and growing. A menagerie of moans, screams, and growls emanated from the mass until it crawled its way to the ceiling. Roman’s form could not be seen in the mass that engulfed that portion of the room. Then, all at once, it stopped. Stopped moving, stopped screaming. Every single one of countless forms and masses, every eye small and large, every face and snout snapped to one person at the same time with unnatural movement and precision. Marius.

Then, as one unified mass of endless abyss, it charged. The screams and growls sounded more like an oncoming train. It ripped, grabbed, and moved with speed something that size wouldn’t—shouldn’t—be able to do. Darkness intent on devouring the one it set its eyes on.

Roman moved in the center of the mass unseen; his movements, like the mass, were unnatural. Mostly moving on all fours, the color in his left eye drained and his right ear muted. He could barely maintain his focus as his mind fought not to be consumed by the very nightmare illusion of light and sound he had created. He reminded himself that it wasn’t real, reminded himself that he had to protect Drake.

His head and shoulder found the pillar first. The illusion was mostly focused on Marius, engulfing him in darkness. A darkness he knew wouldn’t last much longer. Some of that writhing, screaming darkness still enveloped him as he searched for the chain with a splitting headache and blurred vision. When he finally found it, he began to twist and pivot it against itself in an attempt to break the links and free Drake. Only now did he really start regretting not seeing how they had locked Drake to the pillar.

---

When the shockwave of Ariella’s power ripped through the room, Kalliope didn’t fight the force; she leaned into it. The iron-bound oak tray was up in a heartbeat, a heavy buckler caught in a white-knuckle grip as she skidded across the slick, ale-soaked floor. She didn't wait for the dust to settle or the screaming to stop. While the others were dazed by the blast, she bolted for the bar, holding the tray high and angled toward the rafters—a silent, tactical precaution against the crossbowmen in case they tried to find their marks in the chaos.

She moved through the wreckage with a cold, rhythmic intensity, the phantom echoes of a burning palace wing pushing her faster. As she closed the distance to the bar, she weaponized her momentum. With a snapping rotation of her torso, she frisbeed the heavy oak tray toward Marius; it cut through the air, a spinning disc of wood and iron aimed to catch him while he was distracted by Roman’s shadow-mass.

Kalliope reached the counter and didn't slow. She drew a dagger in a silver flash and vaulted over the bar in a single, athletic arc. Maelen was a huddled mass beneath the counter, and Kalliope landed on her with the full weight of her fury. She grabbed the woman’s hair, yanking her head to the side, as she buried the blade deep into the fleshy junction between the witch’s neck and shoulder, Maelen’s scream turning into a wet, choked gurgle as the steel was ripped free across her throat.

In a fluid, predatory spin, Kalliope leveled her gaze at Moira, who was scrambling behind the bar. With deadly precision, she flicked her wrist, sending the blood-slicked dagger whistling through the air. The blade buried itself in Moira's throat with a sickening thwack.

Kalliope didn’t go to retrieve it. Instead, she pulled a second, heavier blade from her belt. Beneath her, Maelen was still twitching, her hands clawing feebly at the floor. Kalliope didn't offer mercy; she offered a message. With a brutal, rhythmic hacking, she worked the blade through bone and sinew, her expression locked in a mask of jagged, focused intent. She worked quickly, and when the task was done, she stood, the front of her clothes and the tan skin of her face splattered in a gruesome, warm map of Maelen’s lifeblood.

She rose from behind the bar like a ghost born of a slaughterhouse. Her green eyes, shimmering with a terrifying, unhinged light, locked directly onto Garran’s. A sadistic grin spread across her crimson-stained lips. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed Maelen’s severed head over the counter. It tumbled across the floor, leaving a grisly trail before coming to a rest near Garran’s boots. “You let the wrong woman roam freely.”

The scene exploded. Olivia’s eyes widened at the telekinetic blast. Before she could react, she was blown from her chair onto the floor. Silverware, napkins, plates and other objects went flying. Poor Kazumin had taken a bowl of mildly hot soup to the face with a yelp, his wet, blonde hair now clinging to his skin.

Luckily, she ducked and wrapped her arms around her head and pulled her knees up to her chest. A few loud clinks told her how close she was to having been stabbed. When it ended, her eyes opened and she unraveled herself. With debris in her hair and scratches on her skin, Olivia felt as if she were stepping back into Persephone’s shoes.

Then, Olivia grasped a knife laying at her feet and noticed another one. Her eyes trailed to Charlotte and she bumped her hand gently with her own. She slipped it discreetly into both Lottie’s and her own pocket and then stood up quietly.

Her eyes traveled to Merrill on fire, who was tossed at Ox by Stratya (who used magic? How many of the king's employees used it?); the illusion from Roman, who was now trying to free Drake. It was then her gaze snapped toward the bar as Kalliope beheaded Maelen (which made her want to throw up-what the hell?). Winston was keeled over on the ground in pain. This left Kazumin, Lottie and her to react next. Her gaze traveled to Kazumin and a wry smile curled up her lips. She gestured to the archers and the others.

“Banana split!” She yelled, causing mass confusion, and ran around the side of the table toward the pillars nearest the staircase to the balcony. She scrambled out of the way of terrified bargoers and stayed low to the ground, moving like a rocket. Once she was near the staircase, she ducked low and out of sight of the archers. She knew one of them would come.

---

Charlotte pushed herself up on her palms, the feeling of the damp wood at her fingertips. However, her arms trembled so badly she wasn’t certain if they were holding her up at all, or what even was happening entirely around her; the roar of the tavern was distant and muffled, as if she had been submerged underwater. Her wide blue eyes were locked on the hazy view of the floor. She had been watching as red blots seemed to form before her with an audible, heavy drop every few seconds. It took a moment for her to register that she was the source of them—that blood had been trailing from not only the gash on her forehead, but from burning nostrils as well. She saw each one land—saw the way they darkened the wood. Charlotte realized that her face had become a canvas for the streams of blood that had painted it.

She shifted her weight, her elbows quivering with the movement as she lifted her gaze in time to watch a severed head tumble past her, the slack features embedding themselves in her mind as her pupils dilated. For a long moment, Charlotte simply stared, her breath stuttering as if her lungs had forgotten how to work. Tears burned hot in her eyes and spilled freely down her cheeks, streaking through the blood and dirt. But she couldn’t look away. The horror had her rooted in place, and it brought upon an unsettling epiphany… This was not a nightmare they could just wake from—there was no guarantee any of them would get out of here alive.

Then Olivia had yelled something, something so familiar, and Kazumin had answered with a code word of his own. Her nails scraped slightly at the wood beneath her. Her jaw suddenly set and so had her mind.

No more hesitation.

She didn’t allow herself to think upon it further, and she pushed off the floor, surging forward, drawn only by raw necessity and adrenaline. Her world narrowed into the space of just her and the man guarding the stairs. Her vision swam as she forced her body onward. His gaze had been drawn elsewhere when Charlotte suddenly slammed herself into him with a force of desperation.

They went down, their bodies crashing hard against the stairs.

Olivia watched as Lottie tackled Paul (the looter) by the staircase. She seized the opportunity and raced up the steps, taking two at a time until she reached the top. She passed by a man who eerily resembled Felix, but she didn’t have time to check. She ran straight for the wall, kicked off, and spun into the air, her fingers grasping around the rafters.

After a moment of confusion, Kazumin was hot on her trail and ran in the opposite direction. He broke at a low sprint, then dropped even lower as he slid beneath one of the tables. He paused to orient himself as someone crouched nearby, their eyes widened and frozen—and staring right at him.

Meanwhile, she pulled herself up and waited. Her breathing was slow and controlled. Olivia assessed the situation, calculating her chances, and then acted. She raced for the archer nearest her like a bullet, with the knife now in her hand. She spun the knife in her hand and then pierced him between his shoulder blades.

He screamed, shock and pain tearing from his throat, and Olivia seized the moment, wrenching the crossbow from his grasp. She pulled it around herself securely. The guy whirled around and faced her, but as he went to attack, she was ready. Olivia sprang into a backflip like a cat and landed on her feet.

With a wild grin, she gestured for him to come at her. “Come on, hotstuff. Show me what you got,” She grinned and pointed at the crossbow. ”Finder’s keepers, eh?” If she knocked him down and he was able to recover or fight, then she was endangering others needlessly. No, she’d finish him on her own when the time was right. What if he fell near Charlotte?

Under the table, Kazumin reached out and clamped a hand firmly over the man’s mouth before a sound could escape. The man’s cheeks puffed beneath his palm, eyes wide with terror.

He leaned in just for the man to hear and murmured, “Shh. Don’t give me away.” With his other hand, he plucked a torn piece of bread from a fallen plate beside him and offered the man a reassuring look before slipping out from under the table as easily as he’d come. He made his way beneath another table, where he took a moment to bite into the bread and chew. His expression sharpened, a serious look overtaking his features. He rose just enough to get a clear line of sight and then made a sprint up the stairs after Olivia.

After a running start, he jumped onto a barrel like it was a stepping stone, vaulted, and caught the lip of the rafters with both hands. For a moment, he hung there, muscles burning, then hauled himself up and went again. He saw Olivia already in motion. He tackled the other crossbowman much like a spider monkey would, all limbs and momentum. Kazumin wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders and drove his weight into his center, boots scrabbling as he clung on. The sudden impact knocked the wind from the man’s chest; his arms flailed as he tried to recover, but Kazumin shifted his weight deliberately, dragging him sideways. One foot slipped off the rafter. Then the other followed.

The crossbowman pitched forward with a startled shout and went over the edge entirely. He hit the wood of the balcony below with a painful thud and a groan. In the same motion, Kazumin tore the crossbow from his hands as he fell, the weapon wrenching free just before the man disappeared from view.

His fingers caught, and he stumbled with it, nearly dropping it. After getting a grip, he fumbled with it immediately, brows knitting.

“How do I—” he muttered, turning it like it might explain itself. “Eh. Whatever.”

Next, Kazumin stood up on the rafters and lifted the crossbow into the air.

“RUIN OUR DRUNKARD’S DAY, WILL YA?” he bellowed at the room, his voice tearing through the chaos. “YOU FUCKERS!”
Without a second thought, he flicked the last of the bread he’d pocketed toward Olivia. “Popcorn!” he called to her.

“Popcorn noted!” Olivia yelled back and caught the bread with an outstretched hand. With a lazy grin, she bit into it and stuffed the rest into her pocket.

🦇Beyond The Veil - Seeking new members🦇

Such a pretty interest check!

Hello all! I am a coGM here to help the lovely Tpartywithzombi.

If anyone is interested but at a loss of ideas, I can list some as soon as possible.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

🌸 Race: Half-Elf 🌸
🦋 Class: Druidic Mystic 🦋
🍄 Location: The Seaside Tailor Stall --> Odds and Ends --> Tavern's Wake 🍄
🍃 Interactions: Corin @Lava Alckon Menzai @Samreaper Arya @Potter Bastion @Oso Elithar @Infinite Cosmos Meiyu @Tae Minerva @FunnyGuy
🌼 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: 6 🪞
🌸 Injuries: Phia is exhausted, weak, and achy. 🌸

”Phia, you look absolutely stunning. That outfit looks great on you.”

"And your hat is divine." Phia told Arya, and latched onto her wrist with both hands when her arm had been offered. Her gaze had been so happily anchored on the frog hat that she hadn’t even noticed Menzai approaching.

“ How strange to find here amidst this sea of rats and rabble, a garden of floral beauty?You look lovely in your new dress, Sweet Phia. A lovely bouquet of nature and colors..it is difficult to say which flower’s beauty best embodies you, but to know that wherever we go, flowers will bloom is a comforting thought.”

There was a delay as Phia processed the sight of Menzai bowing before her, but his words made her blink rapidly and her face flush as her gaze dipped to the hand smoothing over her skirt.Her smile turned a little tight, as though she didn’t quite know what to do with the warmth in her chest, and her gaze dipped again as if that might hide it. “ Now that we have dealt with the issues of clothes, shall we join the others? I suggested they find a table, so we need but join them and…” Before she could answer, a sudden commotion sounded out in the market square and stole both of their attention. Even from here, she could see bodies shifting and people parting, and her curiosity pulled her gaze over despite herself. Her smile faded into something more thoughtful as she watched, wondering what Minerva and Meiyu were doing to that elven man, and why.

But there was another question too. Phia’s eyes narrowed in concentration, because there was something about the elf that seemed oddly familiar in a way she could not immediately explain. As he shifted, the collar of his clothing moved, and Phia’s breath caught when she saw it: there, at the base of his throat, the unmistakable outline of a gem embedded into flesh in the exact same strange manner they all carried, as if the sky itself had branded him and decided he belonged to the same story whether he wanted to or not. Her fingers instinctively lifted to her own amulet. Another? Just how many did it choose?

” Come, sweet Phia. The situation over there seems to be contained, and I sense no dangers. Let’s find the others and eat to regain our strength. We have much to do and figure out.” Wrapping his left arm over her shoulder, the wolf guided her toward the food stalls. Phia followed his lead without question, her gaze drifting up to his face as they walked, as though she were quietly studying him.” We may have those that split off join with us shortly, so best we order extras as well..”

”....I don’t know what to do about that situation. Seems like it’s always something. Does anything appeal to you two? Maybe the others?”

"I know what to do." Phia immediately assured Arya.

Then she noticed Corin as well and waved with a bright smile as he advised, ”If our goal is to gather more people bearing these…gems from the ‘beast in the sky’ as Phia put it…we’ll want that one’s presence. Maybe his two lady friends would like to tag along.”

"Those are our lady friends." she informed him promptly, though he was already heading toward the trio. Phia paused before following, and she looked back at Arya and Menzai as if to anchor herself to them one last second. Her gaze lingered on Menzai in a way that was almost absent-minded, and then she smiled—small and a little cheeky, as if she didn’t fully know why she was doing it.

When she did start making her way over to the trio by the Odds and Ends stall, grass began to grow in the wake of her step, and a few small flowers sprouted subtly at her heels as if her body had made the decision for her.

When she came to stand before them, she caught the tail end of Corin introducing himself, and she looked to Elithar to introduce herself as well.

"Hello. My name is Phia. I am sorry my lady friends are aggressive..."

She nodded with earnest seriousness and added, just as seriously, "I will have to tame them so this doesn't repeat."

Phia stepped over to stand next to Minerva and bent down, swinging her head upside down to stare at her. Her brows furrowed as she informed her, "You're being bad."

Nonetheless, it wasn't long before they all started to head to the nearby tavern as a group to get some food in their belly. The walk toward the tavern did not take long, mostly because the sound found them before the building did. Laughter rose in waves, then came the sound of the slam of tankards and the occasional cheer that made Phia’s shoulders lift as if she expected something to explode.

The air grew heavier with each step closer to the docks, thick with sea-salt, smoke, and spices, and by the time the crooked sign came into view she could already smell food so intensely that her stomach made a noise. A carved kraken swung above the doorway, its painted tentacles curling around the name in bold, weathered letters—The Kraken’s Wake—and Phia found herself staring at it for a second too long as if the creature might blink back.

As they approached, the door swung open and the tavern’s life spilled out into the street.

Inside was a cacophony of movement and sound: sailors with sunburned noses, pirates with too many knives, adventurers who looked like they had survived something they did not want to describe, and tables crowded so tightly together that it felt like everyone was part of the same conversation whether they wanted to be or not. Somewhere near the center, men leaned over a gambling table with intensity, while further back a ring of shouting patrons surrounded what looked suspiciously like a space reserved for violence. Above it all, the warmth of the place wrapped around Phia’s face, and her eyes widened as she took it in.

The most startling part, however, was another kraken.

A massive stuffed kraken head hung over the fireplace like a trophy, its glassy eyes staring into Phia's eyes as if it were accusing her, and she slowed in her tracks, as if she’d just entered the territory of a very large predator. Her gaze drifted upward to it, then back down to the crowd, and then to the bar, where the owner was impossible to miss.

Grelda Saltwind stood behind the counter. She was broad-shouldered, hard-eyed, and radiating the kind of energy that suggested she had once commanded men who were foolish enough to test her. Even from across the room, Phia could hear the attitude in her voice, and she watched as Grelda’s mouth twisted into a look of disdain at a woman nearby.

A platter went by her piled with fried fish and rings of squid, and she reached for it with a trembling hand, only for the man to snatch it further away from her with a glare in her direction.

She pouted, then returned her attention to her companions. “This place is very loud,” she said softly, “But it smells it will nourish us.”

Phia’s gaze lifted toward the bar once more, catching the sight of bottles lined up like jewels behind the counter, and she watched a drink being poured with fruit and spice and something red that glowed warmly in the lanternlight. She made a small, almost indiscernible gasp and drifted toward the bar as if in a trance, drawn by the color of the drink and her curiosity rather than hunger alone.

Menu

The Dead Don't Die: Paradise Lost.

You have my interest c:

Pines Holler [Not Accepting]

@SonnetNSunbeam

All good with me! I don’t mind if anyone uses it.

Pines Holler [Not Accepting]

@SalemFlame Blind kid in Pines Holler is still pretty bold imo xD Lucas is approved. Just switch 'Holler Pines' to 'Pines Holler' in the first Extras bullet point for me before you move him over.

@Fabricant451 I fuckin' love waffle waitresses. Move her over when you're ready!

@princess Willow seems so sweet <3 Put just a quick little TW over the history section for brief mentions of child neglect/abuse & drug abuse pretty please. I know we're all cool with heavy things, but I don't want any shocks for anyone who may choose to read along. Anyyyyway, she's approved!

@Apoalo Ellie is such an awesome addition to the community, and we're lucky to have her <3 Rowan is also a very solid addition, and I can't wait to discuss his and Callie's relationship further. Both are approved.

@Sugar and Spite

Thanks so much for the acceptance! I meant to put in the history description, and I forgot, so thanks for the reminder! <3

✨Beyond The Veil✨

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: The Underground Blood Bank • Time: Evening

Interactions:N/A • Mentions: @FunnyGuy Sean @Oso Bad guys

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Music

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The sensation of burning was the first thing Angel woke up to.

A vicious chemical sting tore through her nostrils, forcing a gasp from her lungs as her eyes snapped open on pure instinct. Tears flooded her vision immediately, her sinuses screaming as adrenaline slammed into her system, panic igniting within seconds of consciousness. And then the rest of it seeped in behind the burn: bleach, copper, antiseptic… layered over a cloying sweetness she recognized with a sickness that turned her stomach.

Sean's voice cut through her haze and made her gaze whip in his direction, settling on the sight of him chained to a pillar. He was posturing the best he could to get their attention, practically snarling. His restraints were almost merciful compared to hers. Angel’s limbs were hauled in opposing directions, every joint held at a cruel angle that made her body feel like it was being displayed. She flexed her wrists on instinct and hissed through her teeth when it only hurt.

She forced herself still and listened—kept one ear open to that situation, waiting to hear what the bastards said back, hoping they were about to obtain some sort of information.

But as Angel scoped the room, she became sicker and sicker to her gut if a vampire could feel such a thing.

Cages lined the room filled with Fae men and women and too-small shapes that horrified even her. She honed in on a pair of children cowering together; Angel hadn't been able to tear her eyes away from them and that bloody elephant for a lingering moment.

Then came the gurneys.

Clear tubes running from bodies to hanging bags. Slowly, dark red blood crept through the tubes and she watched it, her pupils dilating. She felt her lip tremble, disgust rising hot in her throat—only it wasn’t just disgust.

Her mouth flooded with saliva. Her throat burned with a desperate ache, and a part of her—that monstrous part of her —thought about closing her lips around that tube like it was a lifeline.

The sweetness in the air pressed against her senses vividly, turning the fluorescent light into something blinding. Every metal edge seemed to gleam, and every wet stain shone.

And with each new sight her eyes snagged on, something in her mind obligingly supplied just a second of imagery she didn’t ask for.

It had all been too similar after all, so similar to the horrors Magnus had made her bear witness to in hopes she'd grow to like it as much as he had -- that same lesson Magnus had tried to teach her over and over.

Innocents being drained and slaughtered like cattle. He had wanted her to learn to appreciate it, to accept the draining and the slaughter as something inevitable... even beautiful...

The only distinction here was the blood itself. Fae blood, forbidden even among vampires, being harvested openly and without shame.

A line crossed so far that it could cause a war that could end Halcyon as they knew it.

It was then Angel tilted her head as the pieces slid into place, and she thought back to the way Griggs had explained this job—to the way the corners of his lips had just slightly twitched upward here and there. Then there was the fact that the smoke that had been used on her had to have been engineered or chosen specifically to work on her, to work on a vampire.

The first men they’d encountered had been sloppy and robotic compared to the second wave. Those men they had just fought might as well have been from an entirely different operation.

This is a fucking set up.

...But for who?

Her gaze slid back to Sean, lingering on him longer this time, and her mouth lowered into a frown as worry coursed through her. He didn’t belong in this room. He especially shouldn't have been here because of her dragging him here in the first place.

It doesn’t matter, she told herself. I have to make sure he gets out of here alive.

Her eyes drifted again, unwillingly, back to the cages—back to the two kids pressed together like they might disappear if they let go. And I can’t just leave them here either…

Angel then shifted just enough for the chains to creak, deliberately drawing attention, then tipped her head and looked at them like they were deeply disappointing.

“Wow,” she said mildly. “All this effort. Gas, chains, me all the way up in the air-the whole enchilada.” Her eyes traced the restraints once more, then lifted back to them. “I must have really gotten under your skin.”

She paused, as if considering it.“Honest question—why not just kill us while we were unconscious?” She suddenly became aware of the feeling of something around her throat. After a pause, she added with deliberate bite,“Because right now this feels more like someone’s perverted fantasy.”

“...You do look like a damn pervert, after all." Her mouth twitched, and she laughed without humor, “So do I get a safe word?”

"Because I sure hope you have one." Angel snapped and spat in the man's direction. "Because you guys are SO fucked! "

"Not only when we get out of your stupid chains, but when the rest of Halcyon finds out you guys are trying to pull off this sick fae blood operation...Well, what they do to you will make this little place look like child's play. "

Pines Holler [Not Accepting]

Willow Fraser

_{Faceclaim: Kristine Froseth // Color Code: f19ac4}
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Full Name: Willow Anne Fraser Nickname(s): Wills Age: 25 ❁ July 11th ❁ Cancer Gender: Female

Sexuality: Heterosexual Occupation: Waitress at Husker’s Bar and Grill Place of Residence: #11 Shady Pines Drive Trailer

_{Family and Close Connections:}

Family

❁ Diana Fraser - Willow's mother - Previous billing coordinator at the Medical Clinic/Regional Hospital - Currently in Prison

❁ Peter Fraser - Willow's father - Previous construction foreman - Currently in Prison

❁ Jolene Fraser - Willow’s beloved younger sister

❁ Faye Fraser - Willow’s niece

❁ Aunt Bobi - Willow’s aunt

Friends and Connections

Noah Tanner - Knew each other from school (before he dropped out) and co-workers in Huskers Bar & Grill.

Tyler Boone - Old high school ex and kindred spirit she pushed away and broke up with shortly before his mother died.

Caleb Dalton — Very close friend from high school. Bonded over shared pain and bad coping habits.

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Appearance: Height: 5’4” Hair: Light brown/Tawny ❁ Long and straight ❁ Braids or hair down Eyes: Blue Body Type: She is slender with an hourglass figure; mesomorph. Clothing Style: Soft Grunge ❁ Over-sized sweaters/jackets/cardigans ❁ Layers ❁ Tights ❁ Jewelry; Chokers ❁ 2010s tumblr ❁ Sometimes feminine and flowy ❁ Boots ❁ Example 1 ❁ Example 2 ❁ Example 3 ❁ Example 4 ❁ Example 5 Body Markings: ❁ Light dusting of freckles over face ❁ A small tattoo of a fairy wand on her ankle, with sparkles trailing around it like an anklet ❁ Uneven scars along her ribs dated back to her car accident ❁ Small cigarette burn marks on her arms ❁ Multiple ear piercings

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_Personality:

Willow has a sweetness about her that leaves a mark on the people she touches.

She's affectionate in an almost instinctive way: fussing over others, tucking stray hairs behind someone's ear, worrying if they've eaten yet. When someone is telling a story, she listens with her whole body angled toward them, in a way that feels almost motherly. And she’s especially tender with young children.

Stepping into the caretaker role and quietly shouldering blame that isn’t hers is one of the simplest ways to sum up Willow.

She smiles easily and apologizes way too often. She also fills up empty spaces in conversations with gentle thoughts and soft little remarks because silence makes her uncomfortable. Willow giggles at anything that could be interpreted as funny—sometimes even things that aren’t. She bounces her leg when she sits, fidgets with her sleeves, and smothers her anxiety behind kind eyes. If she’s struggling, she rarely says it outright; she’ll insist she’s fine, wave it off, and change the subject. Willow has always been honest about everything but herself. In that aspect, one could call her a compulsive liar.

That sweetness of hers, however, is not ignorance. Willow is observant and emotionally intelligent, extremely hyper-aware of shifts in tone and body language. Her default response is appeasement; the fawn response: make it better, take the blame, keep everyone calm. She’s even clumsy, too, tripping over anything and everything like a fawn learning to walk, especially when she’s nervous. It's like her body gives away what her mouth tries to hide.

Beneath all that softness, though, lives a defiant anger for it all—the pain she and her sister endured, the pain other people endure, and the drugs that have their claws in her life. Willow can tolerate cruelty aimed at herself far longer than she should, but cruelty aimed at someone vulnerable or dear to her flips a switch she can’t turn off and she snaps. And when she swings, she commits to it.

And when she's using—especially weed—she blossoms into someone with a whole lot of thoughts and opinions about the world around her. Sometimes it’s like substances are the only thing that loosen the grip long enough for parts of the “real” Willow to show: philosophical, surprisingly articulate, overly sincere, enamored by the simple things around her… and occasionally spiraling into an existential crisis right in front of you.

Willow struggles privately with self-destructive tendencies, secretly, and nihilistic thoughts. She believes pain is inevitable, so she might as well choose it on her own terms. She struggles with the shame of her demons quietly, seeking numbness, and she has a bad habit of minimizing her own problems until they become impossible to ignore.

Despite everything, Willow hasn’t lost her capacity for hope, but she has lost her trust in systems. She believes in people more than institutions, in small kindnesses more than big promises, and in showing up for the ones she loves.

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~❁~❁~~❁~❁~
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_History:

Willow grew up along Miners Street in a household that seemed "godly" from the outside, but it was more of a pressure cooker on the inside. Diana Fraser and Peter Fraser tried with all their might to instill their beloved "values" into their daughters, only to end up more of walking hypocrites as they spent the rest of their time at each other's throats. Even sometimes at the throats of their daughters too, whom they only granted love to under conditions.

Willow was the family shock absorber as the eldest daughter; she was always the one managing and trying to maintain damage control. She was to keep her little sister Jolene quiet, redirect conflict, and clean up her parents' messes. As she grew older, she learned how to read a room seconds before the explosion, especially with her father’s often punishing temper.

She learned when to speak, when to placate, and when to disappear.

Then everything shifted when her mother got into a car accident with a thirteen-year-old Willow in the passenger seat. Willow survived, but not without injuries that left her in intense, lingering pain. The prescription that followed such an event should have been a normal part of her recovery, but her mother saw an opportunity.

It wasn’t like Willow or Jolene knew their God-fearing mother used drugs, after all.

So Diana took over everything suddenly: appointments, pills, how many doses Willow received, and essentially the entire narrative.

And for the first time in her life, Willow received focused attention. She had always been the caretaker, the quiet little mother in the house, but now, finally, Mama was doting on her baby.

Willow was treated as if she were fragile and terribly unstable. Diana kept her medicated and ... dependent on said medications. And in such a state, it was easy to convince Willow to request more medication at her appointments, and it was even easier for a doctor to prescribe more to a pitiful little teenage girl who hadn't even hit her growth spurt yet.

Diana convinced Willow that the accident had forever changed her, that she'd always be sick, always in need of supervision and help.

And yet her pills kept disappearing.

Even as she'd kneel beside Willow's bed and pray to God with her that she'd get well, she'd still be finding ways to sneak her fingers into that pill bottle.

But time moved on, and Willow turned fourteen, edged closer to fifteen even, and she started to notice. But dear mother would flip the script and accuse Willow of being the addict, the liar—the disappointment.

And through it all, Willow was still the one making sure Jolene ate, got dressed, and made it to school.

But the years ran on, and Jolene hit her own wall. At only sixteen, Jolene got pregnant, and her mother turned her wrath on her. They shamed the poor girl day in and day out, treating Jolene less like a person and more like a walking scandal. And the baby daddy himself was as bad as they were in Willow's eyes. His treatment of Jolene set off every alarm Willow had learned to listen to. One of Willow’s first out-of-character moments came when she walked in on one of his abusive episodes and punched him square in the face without thinking twice. The second was when she walked in on her father with Jolene, and that one had been the final straw.

So then, at nineteen years old, Willow finally acted. She packed their bags, took Jolene by the hand, and insisted they leave. Since then, the sisters have lived together in a trailer in Shady Hills, as cut off from their parents as they can manage. The only stable family presence left in their lives is their Aunt Bobi, who lives nearby and occasionally babysits.

And Willow, despite fighting tooth and nail to cut down on her pill addiction, still struggles. She supplements with other vices(drugs :C) to keep withdrawal at bay, chasing functionality more than escape. But in doing so, has found herself tangled in dangerous dealings and even debt, with some of the less friendly people in Pines Holler.

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_{Extra Facts // Headcannons:}

How does your character feel about the expansion/growth of Pines Holler?
❁ Willow does NOT trust it at all. She believes anyone coming in under the promise of “expansion” has their own interests in mind, not the well-being of the people who already live in Pines Holler.

Fun Facts
❁ She has a scruffy cat named Mickey (she loves Disney)
❁ She grows a small garden of flowers outside the trailer.
❁ Her ankle tattoo is actually dedicated to her niece Faye, whom she refers to as her little fae princess.
❁ Loves reading, coffee, and McDonald's fries.
❁ Cooking is how she shows love. She’ll insist you eat, even if she won’t sit down herself. Willow especially enjoys cooking for Jolene and Faye.
❁ Willow hums absentmindedly when she’s anxious, usually without realizing she’s doing it.
❁ Willow apologizes to inanimate objects when she bumps into them.
❁ She loves indie and alternative music.
❁ Alcohol can bring out a rare party-girl side of Willow, but also a more impatient version of herself.
❁ Willow smokes cigarettes and weed.

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@Sugar and Spite Here she is! <3

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Part 3

Time: 2nd Ignis, Evening
Location: The Damien Estate

---

Violet listened. Or rather - she endured.

Every word Alexander spoke seemed to land on her skin like cold fingertips: deliberate, admiring, assessing. Alexandrite. Diamond.Potential.

The room heard flattery.
She heard appraisal.

Inside, something in her stomach twisted so sharply she nearly lost her breath. She swallowed wine instead of the nausea. She felt less like a woman and more like a stone sitting on a velvet cushion while two men debated its market value. A precious thing. Rare, yes. But still a thing.

And stones were only precious until someone found a better one.

She wondered, for a fleeting and shameful second, if he would cast her aside the moment her shine dimmed. Yet she didn’t have to wonder; he did so after their date. If all this talk of potential was simply a way of saying she was still unshaped, unpolished, unfinished.
Worthy. But worthy for what? Affection? Utility? A place in someone else’s future?

Or perhaps she was simply the convenience of being a pretty object with a well-connected father?

Her fingers trembled once against the stem of her glass before she stilled them.

“Mr. Deacon… Your words are… overwhelmingly kind.” she said softly, giving a faint, practiced laugh. “I fear I don’t quite know what to do with so much flattery at once.”

She dipped her head in a gentle gesture of gratitude

“But I do appreciate the time you have taken with me. Truly.” She glanced briefly toward her father, then back to Alexander. “You have given me something I did not expect to find tonight.”

She took a small sip of wine, more for the pause it afforded her than the taste.

“For so long, I believed my future could only be measured in how well I prepared myself to be a wife.” Her tone remained light, almost self-deprecating. “A pleasant ornament at a husband’s side, perhaps, if I were ever fortunate enough.”

“That… however, is a dream that has since passed.” she admitted, the honesty cloaked in gentleness. “To hear that you see something more in me has given me a different kind of confidence.”

Her fingers relaxed their hold on the glass, just enough to keep from revealing the tension.

“Giving me the confidence that perhaps there is a place for me beyond doting on the notion of a husband that may never come.” she continued, her voice soft but clear. “Perhaps there is work, real work, that might be… fulfilling.”

She let the word linger, as if tasting it for the first time.

Then, with a final, graceful nod:

“For that, Mr. Deacon, I am sincerely grateful.” Her eyes looked over to her parents, “And I am so very grateful to my parents for allowing me the space to do so.”

For a good, long moment, Cassius had simply been listening to the conversation unfolding before him with an amused smile. But soon, he grew bored with this monotony. Not even his little barbs at Alexander could entertain him any longer. Not tonight. Too much had happened in the last week, too many theoretical demons to chase and metaphorical dragons to slay for him to care about the verbal chess playing out around him.

His poor sister…a pawn in the games of others. He could tell she was more aware than she let on, but it did not change her role. Something needed to, though, as despite her unclear disposition of Cassius, he could sense that they had grown closer. The dreadful night of the banquet had bonded them in its way. There’s something about almost bleeding to death in the arms of another that gives one a distinct appreciation for them. She deserved better than this…disgusting game. Not just from wretched Alexander, but from her father as well. The man’s willingness to let her be involved with the Black Rose, even in a minuscule way, drained some of the respect Calbert had earned from him in recent days.

Cas felt his mind wander away from the conversation entirely. Images of the night they were attacked flashed in his mind, as did the weight of Kira’s revelation. He thought of her actions at the auction…then he thought of his date there, with Charlotte, where they decided to part ways. Her face lingered in his mind but only for a moment, as the sound of the door opening brought him back to reality.

“Beautifully said, Lady Viola!” The nearly pining voice of Lianna Deacon shot through the dining room like one of Persephone's arrows. Her hands remained neatly folded in her lap as a tall man in black pushed her wheelchair through the door.

The familiar voice and calculated mistake of her own name didn’t go unnoticed as crimson eyes flicked to the doorway. Alexander had failed to mention his wife's attendance. Perhaps this was a surprise to him as well, but frankly, she was starting to wonder if she would even believe him had he said it was.

Before their eyes could even process the details of his face, a cold draft filled the room. It slid in under the doors like a warning, a breath of cold that curled around the candle flames, making them tremble in their cups.

The dark-haired man stepped in slowly, wheeling the woman forward with an unhurried gait. His hair fell in loose strands around an aged face, streaks of gray in his beard. His eyes were the worst of him—flat, brown, and old in a way nothing mortal ever was.

The fire from the hearth painted his skin in copper on the edges of old scars, but nothing touched those eyes. Shadows clung to him a millisecond too long as he passed, dragging very subtly behind his shoulders. He settled Liana beside her husband carefully before taking his place at Alexander’s flank. When he lowered himself into the chair, it was with a silence that felt deliberate.

Cassius lifted his eyes to the man pushing the chair, and for the first time since he walked into the room, he felt sober.

“Good evening… I hope I have not kept you all waiting…” His voice was low yet resonant when he finally spoke. No smile formed on his lips despite his greeting, only the faint suggestion of one. His gaze moved once along the length of the table, brushing past each person without settling on any single soul.

His next words slid slowly off his tongue, as if rolling off a nearly flat decline, “...Time.. moves.. differently for some of us.”