SilverSpring

✨Beyond The Veil✨

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Location:
Vex’s apartment Time: Dusk

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Vex leaned over him, her golden eyes burning with a fierce, predatory glow, breath steady but sharp as she held him pinned beneath her. Her thighs locked around him, legs braced on either side of his body, the strength in them unmistakable.

A low, sultry laugh slipped from her lips, breath hot as it danced over his skin. She stayed there for a heartbeat longer, letting the weight of her presence settle, then with a slow, deliberate motion, she let herself fall back beside him, boots thudding softly against the floor.

One leg still draped lazily over his chest, she reached out with a graceful, inked arm, fingertips snatching up the can that had tumbled away during their scuffle. With a flick of her wrist, she cracked it open, tilting her head back and drinking deeply with ease. Half-finished, she let out a small exhale and a satisfied moan, offering the rest to him, eyes glinting with dark amusement.

Zachariah grimaced when she offered him the half-empty can. Drinking after a stranger wasn’t exactly appealing. But after a beat, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the protest of aching muscles, and accepted the can.Cold, cheap beer had never tasted so good. Each gulp erased another layer of pain, washing copper-tinged blood from his tongue and cooling his raw throat.

Her gaze swept the wrecked apartment: jagged holes punched through the walls, shattered drywall scattered like snow, furniture overturned and splintered. A slow, wicked grin curled at the corner of her mouth.

“That,” she murmured, voice rich and velvety, “was one hell of an introduction.”

She flexed her wrist slightly, noting how the torn flesh was already stitching itself back together — a perk of her kind, but even so, she’d need to tend to it later. With a fluid roll, she rose to her feet, standing over him with the easy, feral grace of a predator.

Vex reached down, offering her ringed, tattooed hand to help him to his feet.

Zachariah didn’t hesitate this time. He clasped it firmly, letting her pull him to his feet. Pain radiated through his body as he stood—sharp stabs along his ribs, duller aches in his shoulders and back. He winced, rolling his neck carefully to assess the damage.

“Name’s Vex,” she purred, her voice laced with danger and a hint of playfulness. “Found you crumpled up in some alley, beaten bloody. You were turned and dumped I imagine. Must have pissed off the wrong vampire…”

“Zachariah,” he introduced himself, still holding her hand a heartbeat too long before letting go. “I guess so.” His brow furrowed as he tried to gather the scattered fragments of memory. There had been a club. Neon lights bleeding into darkness. Whispers of suspicious activity he’d been tracking. Then... nothing. A blank space where memories should be. “I can’t remember what happened.”

Vex gave a sharp kick, sending a crumbling piece of drywall skittering across the floor with a dull thud. She sauntered over to the worn-out couch, the faded fabric mottled with age and stains. With a casual swipe of her hand, she brushed away a layer of dust, sending tiny motes swirling in the dim light. With a satisfied sigh, she dropped her weight into the cushions, the springs creaking softly beneath her. Leaning back, she slouched deep into the sagging embrace of the couch, boots landing with a heavy thump on the scratched, battered coffee table in front of her. A lazy smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as she settled in, surrounded by the quiet disarray of the room.

He nursed the remainder of the beer, buying time while his gaze drifted across the wreckage surrounding them—the overturned furniture, punctured walls, and dust that hung in the air like the aftermath of some private war.

Guilt and embarrassment settled over him. He’d attacked his rescuer and trashed her place. Nice work. Zachariah set the empty can on a miraculously intact side table and limped toward what remained of the kitchen. “Not... to sound ungrateful for what you did,” he said, pulling open drawers and cabinets until he found a trash bag and began searching for a broom, “but... why did you save me?”

Vex slouched deeper into the battered couch, fingers slipping into her back pocket until they fished out a joint—bent and a little crushed from all the fighting. She frowned, giving a soft click of her tongue as she tried to smooth it out between her fingers. “...Damn.” she muttered, but with a flick of her lighter, the tip flared to life anyway.

Drawing in a long, steady drag, she let the smoke fill her lungs before slowly exhaling, the haze curling around her sharp smile. Her dark eyes tracked Zachariah as he moved awkwardly through the wreckage, a faint gleam of amusement lighting her gaze.

“You wanna know why I saved you?” she murmured, voice smooth as silk, edged with just a touch of heat. She tapped ash off the end of the joint, watching it fall in lazy flecks to the floor.

“I’ve got a thing for underdogs, a soft spot I suppose.” She let the words hang, eyes half-lidded as she smirked. “Too many spawn running around, tearing up the streets, causing havoc. But you…” she motioned loosely with the joint, smoke trailing after her hand, “you didn’t look like some junkie who pissed off the wrong vampire. You looked put together. Like you didn’t belong in their game.”

“No one ‘belongs’ to them or in their game,” Zachariah commented tartly.

She took another drag rolling her eyes, the glow of the ember briefly lighting the sharp curve of her cheekbone. “That’s not how the world works Sugar and the fact that they didn’t want you…that makes you interesting.” Her eyes seemed to linger on him for a moment before she took another long drag of her joint.“Look. I have no agenda if that is what you’re getting at. I live in a shithole and run a tattoo parlor.” Her yellow eyes turned to the joint in her hand as she slowly twisted it in her fingers, watching the smoke rise from the cherry “I had a spare room and you look like you needed one.” she shrugged looking back at him “That’s it.”

“I… see.” If that was really the case, then he completely read Vex wrong. However, this was Halcyon, not everything was as it seemed. In this city, suspicion in moderate amounts was healthy for those who worked with the supernatural. “Thanks for taking me in.”

“ Dont’ mention it. Oh, You wont find a broom, if that is what your searching for…” she let out a small laugh watching him attempt to clean up the mess they made.

Zachariah sighed at that and closed the pantry door. “What do you have that I can use?” Emerging from the kitchen, he flapped open the trash bag and began stuffing all the unsalvageable debris into it.

Vex took another drag of her joint, the cherry flaring to life and briefly casting a devilish red glow across her sharp cheekbone. Her yellow eyes narrowed slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as Zachariah rustled through her barely-standing kitchen with the tenacity of a man clinging to civility.

“What do I have you can use?” she echoed dryly, tipping her head as if actually considering the question.

She exhaled smoke slowly through her nose, watching the grey plume drift lazily toward the cracked ceiling.

“Mmm. Let’s see…” she said, gesturing vaguely with the smoldering joint. “I’ve got a dull butter knife, three lighters that only work if you beg them, a cursed blender, and an overwhelming sense of disappointment in men.”

Her grin widened, sharp and lazy all at once.

“You’re welcome to any of that.”

Zachariah shook his head, smirking slightly. “In other words, nothing I can use to clean. Got it.” He surveyed the apartment again. This was going to take forever. Maybe he should just call in a professional to patch up the room and pay for the expenses.

She kicked her boots up onto the edge of the battered coffee table again, reclining deeper into the couch with the posture of a woman entirely too comfortable amid the ruins.

“But don’t get too eager, Sugar. If you start fixing things around here, I might think you’re trying to nest.”

Vex gave him that look — slow, and sultry. The kind of look that wrapped itself around your spine and tugged. It said she wasn’t joking… but she absolutely was. Probably.

“Or maybe I don’t consider property damage an appropriate thank-you gift. Shocking, I realize.”

She took another drag from the joint, flicked the ash to the floor without a hint of remorse, and let the smoke curl lazily from the corner of her lips.“I consider it a…” she thought for a moment “well…nevermind about that.” she grinned as clearly an inappropriate thought ran through her mind.

“Besides, I kinda like the mess. Gives the place character.”

Zachariah nodded toward the refrigerator with its dented door and exposed coils. “Do you also ‘kind of like’ broken appliances? Because there’s a scrapyard on the east side that might be more your style.” Vex chuckled in response.

Patting his pockets, Zachariah frowned when he realized his wallet and phone were missing. After rummaging through the kitchen drawers, he managed to find a pen and a crumpled receipt. He smoothed it out against the counter and wrote on the back.

“At least buy something that actually works,” he said, setting the pen down on the paper where he’d written his contact information. “Just send the bill to me.”

She let herself sink deeper into the wrecked couch with a long, satisfied moan, stretching out like a cat that had just won a street brawl. She smirked at his comment about billing him. By all appearances Vex looked and lived as if she needed it, but in reality she was the opposite.

“Haven’t had a fight like that in a long time. You fight really well considering you were human.” she attempted to change the subject.

Her voice purred but there was an edge of adrenaline still riding her tone, a buzz beneath the calm. Then suddenly, as if a wire had snapped tight in her mind, her eyes snapped back to him—sharp, alive, deadly.

She sat up abruptly, boots slamming to the floor, elbows on her knees, eyes glowing bright with something between disbelief and amusement.

“You were a fucking Warden.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement—accusation, realization, maybe even admiration tangled in the chaos of her voice. Her grin twisted, hungry and dangerous now, like she'd just realized the rabbit she dragged inside was actually a wolf.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Commander Dane Verren

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Location: The Bastion: War Room • Time: Dusk

Interactions: None
Mentions: @jj doe Reed, @Funnyguy Stone, @sadie Sable, @Apex Sunburn Wendall, @Ctenoid Soul Wulde

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The War Room wasn’t built for comfort—it was built for war.

Cool neon light glowed from circuit-threaded walls, casting the steel chamber in shades of ultraviolet and electric blue. Holographic maps hovered mid-air, flickering with static as red pulses marked trouble zones like arterial bleeds across the city. Above, thick cables ran like black veins through the ceiling, and a low thrum of power vibrated the floor like a predator breathing in its sleep.

This was The Bastion’s nerve center. If Halcyon had a soul, it was buried somewhere beneath this chrome-laced bunker—and it had long since been hardened into metal and silence.

Commander Dane Verren stood like a sentinel at the center of it all, shoulders squared, back to the doors, outlined in the pale glow of the command holos. His silhouette looked carved from rust and shadow. At 6’2” and built like a tank that forgot how to break down, he wore his battle gear loose over a black ribbed exosuit—chest plate half-buckled, sleeves rolled to the elbows to expose forearms lined with old burns and surgical scars.

A jagged line of scar tissue crawled along his jaw, and his expression was carved into stone. The cybernetic implant behind his right eye blinked once, reading data lines scrolling too fast for most humans to process. Smoke curled from a cigar clenched between two fingers—half-burned, entirely forgotten.

The war room door hissed open. Hydraulic locks disengaged with a quiet shunk.

Lieutenant Crowe stepped inside, eyes squinting slightly against the neon. Mid-thirties, lean and wiry, his uniform was sharp but battle-worn—like everything in this damn place. A flicker of a retinal HUD danced across his irises as he pulled up a data tablet, already bracing for what he had to say.

Verren didn’t turn.

“Status on Warden Reed.”

Crowe’s boots clicked across the floor panels. “Still missing, Commander. He has been listed as a Code 3, MIA. Last ping placed him outside The Club in Sector Six. Civilian cover intact. No signs of conflict, but the signal cut the moment he stepped inside.”

Verren’s jaw flexed, slow and tight.

He reached for the console, fingers tapping in a brutal rhythm. A 3D map of Halcyon unfolded in the air, buildings rising in wireframe as red markers blinked across the industrial zone—Dock 12, where a dead Lycan had been reported. Three blocks down, a vampire nest turned charnel house. Reeds marker at the Club had flashed And then… nothing.

No link to Reed. No trail.

Just a silence that felt intentional. It had been days with no word.

“I want a full sweep of Sector Six. Scrape surveillance. Tap traffic drones, sewer grids, nightclub optics—if a rat twitched in that district, I want to see it die on playback.”

Crowe nodded and slid his fingers across the screen, dispatching orders to field agents with practiced efficiency.

Verren didn’t stop. His voice was low, sharp, and unrelenting.

“Warden Stone — still tracking intel?”

“Yes, sir. Still active. Running silent, but on grid.”

“Warden Riddenhouse, Investigation status?”

“Active investigation Sir. Running silent aswell, but also on grid.”

“Warden Tilman?”

Crowe paused. “…No contact. Last message was a loose check-in. Since then—nothing.”

Now Verren turned. Slowly. The left lens of his cybernetic eye clicked and shifted focus, scanning Crowe’s face like it was waiting for a lie.

“Then send her a signal. I want her voice on comms, or I want her corpse in a bag. With a missing Warden, I went a check in.”

Crowe hesitated. “Yes, Commander.”

Another blink. Another name. Another ghost on the screen

Wendall.

No movement. No report. A flatline too quiet to be a glitch.

“Check Wendall. Personally. If he’s off-grid, I want to know why. If he’s compromised, I want to know by who.”

Then, with a final command swipe, Verren pulled up the last file.

A face appeared in brilliant high-res—a young woman with chaos in her eyes, Dark hair and a smirk like she knew where all your knives were hidden and liked the thought of them at your throat.

Lexi “Jinx” Vox.

Status: UNTRACKED
Last Seen: Twelve days ago
Risk Level: Escalating

Verren’s stare hardened. His voice dropped, rough as shattered glass.

“Find Jinx, too.” His jaw clenched. “She’s been gone far too fucking long. I want her found. And I want her put back on her leash.”

The room went still again. No alarms. No shots fired. Just the hum of neon and the crackling breath of a city that didn’t know it was already bleeding.

Commander Verren looked out across the glowing map, cybernetic eye zooming in on blinking lights—each one a soldier, a name, a life barely clinging to protocol.

“This city’s unraveling. One Warden at a time.”

A long drag from the cigar. Ash fell like snow across the console.

“If we fall…”

He said it like a vow. Like a warning. Like a line no monster would survive crossing.

“…Humanity follows.”

---

All across Halcyon, Warden-issued comms flared to life at once—pockets, gauntlets, and holsters pulsing with cold blue light like a heartbeat synced to war drums. The Bastion's command code override had gone out. No ringtones. No voices. Just a single urgent vibration and a flashing symbol on every screen: the Warden crest—cracked down the middle.

URGENT
CODE 3 - Last location Nightclub in Sector 6
ALL WARDENS REQUIRED TO DO A STATUS CHECK.
End Transmission

Beyond The Veil Interest Check

Well, I could do a packless werewolf since that was one of my ideas for a character for this. Just may need to think a bit about the backstory. Like maybe being one of the few survivors of his pack, he is now trying to figure out who destroyed his pack and why. Or maybe something else I need to think.

@Theyra

I will Dm you a link to our group so you can speak with some of the other members and maybe help with creating a character.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

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Location: Noahs bedroom Time: Dusk
Interactions:@helo Noah
Mentions:

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Wren’s face, usually cloaked in a brooding, unreadable stillness, seemed to glow when Noah was near — a soft, secret light reserved only for him. Around him, her sharpness dulled, her shadows softened, and a rare vulnerability flickered through her guarded eyes.
Her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile as he murmured his praise, a delicate flush creeping up her neck like a blooming bruise.

“You’re the only perfect thing in this world, little bird,” he breathed against her ear, his voice silk-wrapped steel, curling into her skin.

His hand slid around her wrist, firm, inescapable — not cruel, but commanding — and she felt her body yield, instinctively molding to his. His fingers threaded through her hair with practiced ease, sweeping it aside to bare the pale, delicate slope of her neck. His mouth found her skin, his lips tracing a heated, unhurried path, every kiss a brand, every breath a hush of promised hunger.

The familiar scrape of his fangs grazed her throat, sending an electric shiver down her spine, her breath hitching as her skin prickled with anticipation. Her pulse quickened beneath his touch, heart beating out a desperate rhythm of longing and surrender. His presence enveloped her like a dark fog — not just haunting her, but haunting himself.

When he finally withdrew, her wide violet eyes lifted to his, glazed with heat and something deeper, darker. Her fingers clung to his shirt as if she could anchor herself to his gravity and never drift.

“Now,” he murmured, voice a low purr, “Be a good pet and get cleaned up. We’re meeting Locke at The Pink Room tonight.”

She smiled and nodded softly — but then, something shifted.

Her body tensed, pressing tightly against him, her eyes slipping out of focus, glassy and distant. Her grip on his shirt tightened, knuckles white, as though grasping at threads of reality unraveling around her.

“He’s the master of the deal,” she whispered, her voice distant, hollow, layered with the echo of something ancient and not her own. “The architect of ruin.”

“They say the Devil’s luck clings to him…” she breathed, voice softening into a dangerous hush. “…but the Devil won’t claim him.” A faint, eerie laugh trembled in her throat. “You may agree, but never see.”

Her lashes fluttered; her gaze snapped back into sharpness, falling on his face with a slow, smile. Her head tipped back slightly, exposing the pale, inviting length of her throat.

“They whisper in my ear, my darling Noah…We best be careful.” she murmured, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips — not soft, but edged with a bite, her teeth sinking gently into his bottom lip before she pulled away, smiling like a cat savoring the last twitch of a caught bird.

“I’ll go get ready.”

She turned with grace, hips swaying as she sauntered away, knowing — daring — him to watch.

She paused by the bed, glancing over her shoulder, her dress sliding off one shoulder, then the other, slipping to the floor with a whisper. Her pale skin shimmered faintly in the dim light, silver hair cascading down her bare back, ethereal and unearthly. The stark paleness of her body against the backdrop of the bloodied sheets created a haunting image, etherial and haunting.

She stood there, still, a vision on the edge of dream and nightmare — a creature of desire and dread.

“Maybe,” she murmured, voice dark velvet as she bit her bottom lip, “there’s something else you can have for breakfast instead…”

“Maybe there is…” Noah repeated with one last drag from his cigarette.

With a sly, wicked smile, she disappeared into the steam of the shower room — leaving behind the faint, lingering trace of her scent a soft humming sound came from the room as steam began steeping into the bedroom.

Noah’s eyes had stayed fixed on Wren, watching her every movement with a stillness unnatural to him. His every muscle tightened with anticipation like a lion stalking its prey and waiting for that perfect moment to strike. As she disappeared into a hazy mist of steam he slowly began to follow. Noah paused by the body his breakfast sat on top of and kicked one of the stiffened arms.

“Wanna know a secret? Locke ain’t got nothin’ on my luck.” He bent down to whisper before putting out his unfinished cigarette on the cold, lifeless lips. He, too, disappeared behind the building steam.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Dinner Time
Location: Banquette
Mention: [@Lava] Drake
Interactions: @heloClarence @JJ Doe Hala @Tae Thea
Appearance: Light blue gown with Silver accents

Ariella’s fingers tightened gently around Thea’s arm, her brow furrowing as she listened — really listened — to every cracked, trembling word. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t rush to fill the space. She just stayed there, steady and present, letting Thea pour it out.

When Thea’s last words hung in the air, soft and raw, Ariella gave a small exhale, her eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight.

“Oh, Thea…” she murmured, her voice low, threading between humor and heartache. “You are not too much.”

“You’re not too loud, or too reckless, or too big-hearted for anyone who’s worth a damn.” Ariella’s lips tugged into a wry, crooked smile. “If they can’t keep up with your fire, that’s their failure, not yours.”

“And for the record, my brother? Drake doesn’t hate you. If anything, he’s probably sitting inside right now wondering how badly he screwed up and if he should be out here apologizing. Trying to keep the family name strong.” She gave a soft laugh, a flash of teasing in her eyes.

Her expression softened, voice dipping.

“I came after you because I know what it’s like,” Ariella admitted quietly. “To feel like you’re never enough. To feel like you’re walking on a stage where every move you make is the wrong one. To carry the weight of people’s disappointment like it’s stitched into your skin.” She swallowed hard, her throat working. “I know what it’s like to stand alone after the storm hits and wonder if anyone will still be standing with you.”

Her fingers squeezed Thea’s arm again, firm, grounding.

“But here’s the thing: you don’t have to stand alone tonight.”

Ariella offered a small, lopsided grin. “And if anyone tries to come after you — your mother, my mother, the whole damned gossiping crowd — they’re going to have to deal with me first. And trust me, Thea…” Her grin sharpened, just a hint of mischief flashing through. “I might not look it, but I am exhausting when I’m on a mission.”

She leaned in slightly, her tone softening again.

“So maybe Drake’s not the only Edwards who can make you feel safe.” Ariella’s gaze met hers, steady and clear. “And maybe you’re not as alone in this mess as you think.” She offered a smile, raising the bottle to her lips for another long drink.

A voice then slipped in, and Ariella froze mid-sip, the wine bottle hovering just below her lips as Hala’s heels clicked closer. Her eyes flicked up, narrowing as the turquoise-robed figure snatched the bottle from Thea. Ariella’s first instinct was defense as she looked at Hala with a questionable expression, but she didn’t interrupt. Not yet.

She had no idea who this person was; perhaps they knew Thea, but she did see Hala rather close with Milo earlier. Why did they follow them?

Ari brought the bottle back to her lips, taking another large drink as she started to feel the slight buzz in her head, her cheeks pinkening in color. Her lips parted to speak, but a familiar voice stopped her.

She turned to see Cal — Clarence — join them. Her face lit up, excited to see him; there was still a strange feeling knowing it wasn’t Cal, yet having him there didn’t seem to matter all the same.

“Did you enjoy my gift?” he asked, his attention finally settling on Ari. “That little dose of public embarrassment thrown your mother’s way.”

The glint in his eyes made her smile brighten more as she nodded. “I did! It was better than a bouquet of flowers,” she grinned. “Did you see what I did!? Spilt wine all down her dress. She had some choice words for me, but…” Ari shrugged. “I managed to make her leave for the time being at least.” she said proudly with a smile.

Ariella’s hands, still holding the wine bottle, lowered slightly as she took a step closer to Cal, wanting to close the distance. Her gaze lingered on him for just a moment longer than necessary before she glanced away, smiling with pink cheeks, trying to regain some semblance of control over herself. But there was no mistaking it — Callum’s presence always made her feel like maybe, just maybe, the world wasn’t so heavy after all.

She glanced back up at him with a smile. “I’m happy you came to join us! Thea and I were starting her birthday early,” she smiled, looking over at Thea with a smile before offering Callum the bottle of wine.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Aiko 0.2.1 Open Beta

INSERT-HEADER-IMAGE-LINK

INSERT-CHARACTER-IMAGE-LINK __________________________________________________________ Basic Information __________________________________________________________ • Name | Aiko • Nickname(s) | The Vintner, The Dream Alchemist, Zone Defense, Oblivion • Age | Old Enough • Gender | Fluid • Birthday | When the moon first kissed the dream of a flower • Race | Fae • Rank/Status | The Vintner of the House of Dreamwalking Appearance __________________________________________________________ [+] • Height | Around 5'6" • Build | Slender yet.. Nebulous. Their body changes with their presentation, yet their general mass stays consistent. • Eye Color | Gold • Hair Color & Style | Black and variable, their hair changes freely in length, though it still needs styling when they do this. For this reason, they don't often get it done, letting it fall how it may while giving it basic maintenance. • Skin Tone | Fair and smooth without marks • Notable Marks | Fair, unblemished skin • Typical Clothing Style | Loose-fitting, flowing garbs that will fit no matter what shape they take • Aura/First Impression | Sweet, friendly, approachable and passionate about their craft, perhaps obsessed. If you're a customer. If you are not a customer, Aiko is playful and mischievous, but not dangerous. Really, they just want to trick one into becoming a customer. If you harass their customers.. don't let them catch you. • Voice | Varies with their shape and whimsy Relationships __________________________________________________________ [+] • Openness to Friendship (1-5) | 5 • Openness to Romance (1-5) | 4 • Romantic Preferences | Pansexual • Current Romantic Interests | There’s been some dreams I like to frequent, lately, but nothing I’d call a romantic interest. • View on Forbidden Relationships | It’s all in how you handle it. You have to be at peace with the reality of things. Mortals will die, for example. Can't go crying too hard for something you knew would happen. • Biggest Turn-ons | Wild, adventurous dreams; dreams of themselves; purposeful, eloquent speech • Biggest Turn-offs | Alcoholics guzzling my wine like it’s some cheap swill; flinching at their shifting; • Known Friends | Insert • Known Enemies | Insert • Known Family | Insert

Psychology ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Hobbies/Interests | Cooking, Reading, Walking the Dreamscape, Hunting rare samples • Likes | Novelty, Healthy Dreams, A good time, reading by candlelight, fashion shows, tasteful nudity • Dislikes | Dreary days, boring places, angry dreams, harsh metal music • Fears | Insomnia, Tortured Dreamscape • Habits | Humms while working, dreamwalks all the time, shifts at any time, snuggly • Vices | Shrooms, pot, a bit of booze Core Motivation Dreams are so vastly varied, each with different properties. How to best enjoy them and ply them, then? And what of those rare dreams, ah? Personality Overview Aiko is approachable and, seemingly, trustworthy, for a Fae. They like to make simple, clear-cut deals, but the purpose is two-fold. One, most deals Aiko makes include dreams in the terms. It is through dreams that Aiko gathers ingredients for wine, cooking, and crafting. Rare ingredients are quite the fixation for this Fae. Though this particular Fae likes to play nice, they are still a Fae. Their sweetness is a lure as much as anything else, bringing in those who would find easy comfort in small kindnesses. They are fiercely protective of their customers, viewing their dreams as a precious resource. The ingredients they prefer are those from good dreams, as well. They bring a sweet flavor with them. And who wants to drink sadness, anyway?

Background ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Current Occupation | Fae Vintner • Level of Schooling | Fae School? Hah. • Past Occupations | Dream therapist, but that.. well. That’s history, darling. • Socioeconomic Status | High-class Fae, creating dream wines for exclusive clientele • History Summary | Life was beautiful. Aiko was free to frolic one moment and Walk the next. They wove their existence from dreams, drifting like a cloud through enchanted forests and over sleepy meadows. They offered solace to those that crossed them, though, as with any Fae, it came at a price. With Aiko, it was a simple price: access to their dreams, and ingredients therefrom. Though the forest has changed, Aiko did not. Not immediately. Perhaps due to the influence of the city, of the creeping shadows now seeping into the dreams they walk, Aiko began to develop a taste for certain things within the dreamscape. These things proved to be problematic to honest therapy, and they made the decision to change professions for the sake of simplicity. Aiko took to making things for sale from things they gathered from dreams. They’d built up quite a supply, as well. Unique and strange items, but the one thing that took off was the wine. It could be sold to both the supernatural and the mundane, and it was quite delicious. The wine quickly became popular for its apparent effect on dreams. Rumors grew and swirled about what wines would do what to your dreams, and the rumor mill itself spurred the sales even further. Aiko had been able to secure a modest living with the sale of some ingredients, but the wine lifted their coffers and their status. Their careful attention to the craft earned them a quick reputation for fine wines. Cheap options sold to anyone kept Aiko’s selection of dreams to wander vast, while their upscale wines, handcrafted in small batches, brought in big clients. With money lining their pockets, they’ve secured a few deals in shops across the city and opened an exclusive location where their high-end wines are sold but theirself. The hours are whenever Aiko decides to open, but you can get on a text mailing list. Across the street, Aiko lives in an atelier penthouse suite, with their workshop space and living quarters blended together.

Race-Specific Questions ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Race info ▸ Fae ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Element Affinity | Void - The Space Between Things • Glamour Specialty | Dream Weaving - Aiko is able to bring things from dreams into reality. Objects, or even abstract things, like emotions. • Views on Mortals | Show me • Views on Vampires | Your • Views on Lycan | Dreams Miscellaneous ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Theme Song | Insert • Favorite Food | Dreams of hunting, breaded in the hard work of a farmer, fried over the passion of a blacksmith, seasoned with thoughts of cheese • Favorite Animal(s) | Foxes, Monitor Lizards, Chameleons, Geckos, Magpies, Crows, Cockatiels are a riot, Frogs • Favorite Music Genre | Vaporwave, Lo-Fi • Favorite Haunt | Home, or a bar to sample other alcohols and folks. • Signature Weapon | Insert • Preferred Vices | Shrooms and Pot • Pet Peeve | A ruined rare ingredient. • Guilty Pleasure | Wet dreams and playing the antagonist in a nightmare, but never simultaneously.

@CitrusArms

approved

✨Beyond The Veil✨

<Snipped quote by Dark Light>

I approve!

@princess

Approved

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Location: Noah’s bedroom
Time: Dusk
Interactions: @helo Noah
Mentions:

Wren sat cross-legged on the blood-soaked bed, idly twirling a lock of her hair around one finger, humming to herself as she traced lazy patterns in the red-stained sheets. The corpse beside her had started to stiffen, but she paid it no mind—her gaze was fixed on her phone, waiting, waiting.

The device chimed softly in her hand.

Her eyes lit up.

She unlocked the screen with a swipe, and there it was: a message from Noah.

Finished work
Headed home
Eye can’t wait to see you

And beneath the words…

A photo.

Noah, bathed in the glow of flames, a burning figure crumpled in the background, fire curling around a chair like grasping hands. Noah stood in the center of the carnage, blood on his face, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and in his hands—two perfect severed eyes, gleaming pale against his stained fingers.

Wren let out a soft, breathless sigh.

“Oh…” she whispered, a smile blooming across her face.

She hugged the phone tight against her chest, pressing it close as though she could feel his warmth through the screen. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she rocked gently back and forth, heart fluttering in her ribs.

“He’s so thoughtful,” she murmured dreamily. “He always remembers the little things.”

She peeked back down at the photo, admiring the artistry, the firelight, the way he held the eyes like precious jewels. Her fingers brushed the screen tenderly, tracing his face.

---

Wren looked up as the door opened, her expression lighting instantly with joy.

“Noah!” she breathed, delighted. She was curled up comfortably in the middle of the blood-soaked bed, knees hugged to her chest, her chin resting atop them like a cat waiting for its master.

Around her, the sheets were drenched, sticky with half-dried blood; the body lay sprawled beside her, arranged lovingly, a cloth napkin draped over its chest, a silver tray perched across its stomach. The tray held a chipped teacup filled with blood, a butter knife stabbed into a heart like a soft-boiled egg, and a little plate where a human tongue sat coiled like a sausage.

She pouted, genuine sadness pulling at the corners of her lips.

“You’re late,” she murmured, voice low and sweet. “I made you breakfast in bed.”

She unfolded herself slowly, stretching like a waking creature, her white nightgown clinging in places where blood had dried, stained to a dusky rose. She stepped down from the bed, leaving delicate red footprints across the pale floor, padding barefoot toward him.

“It’s gone cold now,” she sighed, brushing a sticky lock of hair behind her ear. Her smile flickered back, small and hopeful. “It’s gone cold now.”

She stopped in front of him, tilting her head, eyes shining with affection and something darker beneath. Gently, she reached up and wiped a smear of blood from his jaw with her thumb, smudging it rather than cleaning it.

“I thought of you while I carved him up,” she whispered. “Every slice.”

Her thumb traced down his chin, then she dropped her hand, stepping back, gesturing to the bed like a proud puppy.

“He told me such awful little secrets before he died.” She laughed softly, a breathy sound. “I almost saved him for dinner, but no—you deserve the first taste.”

Her gaze softened, a flicker of vulnerability in it.

“I wanted it to be perfect…” she whispered softly

She stood there, barefoot, bloodied, a creature of quiet chaos, looking at him with the innocent longing of someone who just wanted to make their owner proud.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Second character. Warden shrink.

Andrew Carlino

Header/Image

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Basic Information

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

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

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Psychology

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

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

Personality Overview:

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

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

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Background

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

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

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

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

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

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

Race-Specific Questions

(Fill the one that fits your race)

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

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

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

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

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Miscellaneous

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

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@Ctenoid Soul

Approved you can post it in the CS tab

✨Beyond The Veil✨

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Vex's Apartment
Time: Dusk
Interactions: @JJ Doe Z
Mentions: None

The sound of keys fumbling at the lock echoed in the hall. A muffled curse followed a woman’s voice, low and frustrated.

Thunk.

A heavy thud rattled the door as a body leaned against it, trying to force it open. “Come on…” she muttered under her breath, another metallic jangle of keys. “Piece of shit…”

Suddenly, the door burst inward with a groaning creak, nearly throwing the woman off balance. She half-stumbled, catching herself with a boot scuff against the floor, a triumphant grin curling at the corner of her lips.

“Shit.” She cursed again, yanking the stubborn key free and tossing it onto the nearest table with a loud clatter.

She stepped fully inside, cigarette clinging between her lips, a six-pack of beer tucked under one arm. Her low-rise jeans clung to her hips, ripped at the knees and thighs; the combat boots thudded with authority as she kicked the door shut behind her. Her leather jacket creaked with each movement, open just enough to reveal the black crop top beneath, a sliver of tattoo ink peeking along her ribs. Tousled hair fell over her shoulders in wild, windswept waves, her aviators slipping halfway down her nose.

She didn’t notice him at first, humming under her breath as she set the beer down on the kitchen counter. One hand flicked the cigarette to the side to ash it, the other shoved the sunglasses up to perch atop her head.

Then she turned—and froze.

A slow smirk unfurled across her face as her yellow eyes landed on Zachariah, still pale and trembling in the bathroom doorway, his lips parted, canine tooth glinting faintly under the harsh light.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to wake up,” Vex drawled, voice honeyed with a sultry, teasing lilt. She sauntered closer, hips swaying, smoky eyes appraising him from head to toe like he was both a curiosity and a challenge.

“Feeling a little… bitey, are we?” she purred, stopping a few feet away and leaning her weight into one hip. She popped the cigarette from her lips and exhaled a curl of smoke toward the ceiling. “Thirst hit you hard, huh? Almost cracked open the mini-bar?”

Her gaze flicked toward the fridge, then back to him, amusement twinkling in her dark eyes.

“Relax, pretty boy. First taste is always the worst.” She stepped closer, close enough for him to catch the mingled scent of leather, cigarettes, and lingering road dust. “You’ll learn. Or you’ll lose your damn mind. Either way… gonna be fun watching.”

She gave him a slow wink, then turned on her heel, sauntering back toward the kitchen. With a casual yank, she ripped two beers from the plastic rings of the six-pack and popped the caps off with the edge of the counter.

She held one out toward him over her shoulder, flashing another playful smirk.

“Beer?” she offered, eyebrow arching.