Tae

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Race: Yuan-ti
Class: Rogue Arcane Assassin
Location: The enchanting bathroom
Interactions: @princess Phia @Oso Talis
Mentions:
Equipment:

Full Equipment List

🌸 A finely crafted katana
🌸 A concealed dagger laced with paralytic venom
🌸 Throwing needles coated with different poisons
🌸 Black silk combat outfit reinforced with hidden Mithril chainmail
🌸 Soft-soled boots that allow for near-silent movement
🌸 Smoke bombs and illusion charms for quick escapes
🌸 A set of forged documents under multiple aliases
🌸 A tea set and an assortment of teas
🌸 Incense

Attire:
Gold Balance: 80
Injuries: None currently, but has numerous faded scars on her body

As Talis began to speak, Meiyu murmured a few soft, serpentine syllables beneath her breath. Her fingers made a subtle, almost graceful movement in the air, casting a quiet veil of soothing arcane energy around the dying girl–a muted spell meant to dull the fear, the pain, the desperation.

“Calm now,” she whispered, “Let the fear drift. Just speak.”

And Talis did.

As the girl laughed–a breathless, pride-tinged sound–Meiyu’s eyes tracked the motion of her hand sliding into her robe. When the crystal emerged, faintly pulsing, imperfect, unique, Meiyu went still.

Her breath caught, soft and precise, like a blade stilling before the strike.

The heartbeat of light in the crystal called to something deep and silent within her. Something ancient. Her gaze sharpened, lashes lowering slightly as she stared at the artifact with reverence and hunger braided together.

“Good girl,” Meiyu whispered low, almost to herself, the words curling from her lips like smoke. “That’s it.”

Even as Phia poured her soul into comforting the girl, Meiyu’s attention remained riveted to the crystal. She heard the ache in Phia’s voice, the raw anguish in every word, but her eyes did not leave the artifact. She noted the way Phia's grief threatened to consume her, saw her spirit fraying with every desperate word she offered the girl now fading in her arms. But Meiyu remained still, laser-focused, reverent.

Magic hummed now, thick and old. The crystal hovered. Chose.

Meiyu’s breath caught as she studied it, the artifact’s glow reflected in her serpent-bright eyes. The hum threaded through her like a chord strummed against bone–resonant, wrong, familiar. Questions bloomed fast in the dark soil of her thoughts: What power nested in that light? Was it sentient? Could it be bound? Was this what the Devil had come for or was it more than even she knew?

She let her gaze linger a moment longer before it drifted downward.

Talis was still.

The girl’s chest no longer rose. Her hand had fallen. Her spirit… gone.

Meiyu’s expression didn’t falter, but a cold stillness settled behind her eyes.

Then she looked to Phia, noting the elf’s labored breathing, the slackening in her limbs, the final collapse of someone who had poured out the last of herself into the fading light. The grief on her face was raw, carved deep, but Meiyu only acknowledged it with the faintest flicker of thought.

And then, silent and poised, she turned back to the task at hand.

Her fingers hovered near Talis again, not to comfort this time, but to search. Her movements were respectful, efficient. A final check, though the girl no longer clung to life. She rifled through the folds of the robe and pockets, seeking… anything else. Anything missed. Her hand moved with precision, never disrupting the moment’s sacred air.

She found a pressed flower tucked in a wax-sealed envelope over the girl’s heart, simple and unassuming. A memento. Sentimental, not magical. There was a locket too–brass and silver–its painted miniature revealing the soft features of a woman who might have been her mother. Meiyu’s gaze lingered a breath longer there, registering it but not dwelling.

A folded paper, too, with words written at the top, "Dear Arin," followed by nothing. Unsent. Unspoken.

And then, the purse. Eight gold. Unremarkable.

Only after cataloguing these pieces did she return her attention upward. Her gaze lifted to the crystal once more.

Then, finally, she reached for the crystal. Not in haste. Not in greed. But in wonder.

With fingers like silk and steel, Meiyu extended her hand toward the artifact, eyes gleaming with something terrible and beautiful. “Let’s see who you really want, then,” she whispered.

And touched it.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Elodie Ashbourne

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: Her apartment above Honey & Hemlock• Time: Dusk

Interactions: @FunnyGuy Sean • Mentions: N/A

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Elodie Ashbourne was in distress.

Serious, wardrobe-induced, oh-god-my-life-is-over distress.

The floor of her bedroom was a battlefield of discarded outfits—ribbons, tights, dresses, and one particularly sparkly top that had been immediately vetoed for making her look like “a haunted cupcake.” Her closet door hung open like it too was appalled at her indecision, and her bed bore witness to her suffering, piled high with skirts that were either too “please-like-me” or not enough “I-belong-here.” Because the Velvet Bite wasn’t just a club. It was the club...or lounge, technically. A glimmering den of teeth and temptation, glamour-drenched and velvet-lined, where vampires and fae and lycans mingled like gods and devils, and—

“Where little mortals like me get eaten alive,” she mumbled under her breath, then stopped.

That wasn’t her anymore.

The thought hit like ice down her spine. She wasn’t mortal. Not really. Not anymore. The label didn’t fit, no matter how much she still wanted it to. And no matter how she smiled or how sweetly she offered cupcakes and compliments, they knew it too.

Every interaction she’d had with the supernatural since her turning had ended the same, with them staring at her a beat too long. Eyes narrowing. Nostrils flaring like they were trying to place a scent that didn’t belong. A vampire at the halfway house once told her she gave him “the same feeling as static before a lightning strike.” A fae woman had sniffed and called her “off-tune.” Even a lycan courier delivering blood packs to the café flinched when she brushed his hand by accident. She tried to laugh it off, but their eyes always said the same thing.

There’s something wrong with you.

Her chest tightened, and she turned away from the mirror.

Focus.

She scanned the mess again and spotted it–folded neatly on her dresser, like it had been waiting.

A soft black milkmaid dress, with puffed sleeves, velvet ribbon corset lacing, and a flared, mid-thigh skirt that swished just right when she twirled. It was cottagecore-meets-gothic-debutante. Sweet, with a whisper of danger. She pulled it on, slid into sheer black thigh-high tights, and picked out a pair of delicate ankle boots with silver buckles. Her hair, freshly curled, was half-pinned with matching velvet bows, and her lips wore a shy stain of rose-red gloss. A dainty vial necklace nestled at her throat, filled with a small bit of synthetic blood laced with cinnamon. Just in case.

She gave her reflection a final once-over. The girl staring back looked almost… confident.

Almost.

With a nervous exhale, she picked up her tiny bat-shaped purse and stepped out of the room. Sean was seated by the window, stoic as ever–coffee in hand, eyes scanning the street like the city owed him answers.

Elodie cleared her throat gently.

And then she twirled.

Just one spin–flared skirt and curls catching the light–before she slowed, cheeks flushed pink as she clasped her hands in front of her. “So?” she asked, eyes flicking up to him beneath her lashes. “How do I look?”

She tried to keep it light, like it didn’t matter. Like she wasn’t desperate to feel like something other than a broken spell in a girl-shaped body.

But then she hesitated, biting her lip softly before adding, “Be honest. Do I look like someone who belongs in a place like the Velvet Bite… or like someone pretending she’s not in over her head?”

There was a wobbly smile at the corner of her mouth, the kind that dared him to lie…but begged him not to. She fiddled with a lock of her hair before tucking it behind her ear and added, quieter, “I don’t want them to see that girl. The scared one. Just for one night, I want to be someone who fits.”

Her voice trailed off and she gave a little shrug, as if to wave it away, but her eyes stayed fixed on him. Searching. Waiting. Hoping.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: Banquet Hall
Interactions/Mentions: @Apex Sunburn Iyen & Sjan-dehk
Aesthetic: Outfit

Kalliope didn’t respond at first. Her gaze lingered on the room, tracking exits, movements, tension. But when Iyen let out that obnoxiously triumphant “Duwah!” and slammed her mug down with all the subtlety of a boulder, Kalliope’s mouth twitched despite herself.

She shot her a sideways glance.
“You’re a menace,” she muttered, but this time the words came dry and almost fond. “I hope you’re proud.”

Then came the rest—about Sjan-dehk, about acting, about idiots and misunderstandings—and Kalliope listened, silent but intent. When Iyen called her an amazing actress, she gave a short, humorless laugh.

“It’s part of the job,” she said simply, fingers brushing the rim of her goblet. “Fool enough people, you might even start fooling yourself.”

The pointed finger toward Sjan-dehk made her exhale softly, her gaze falling for a beat.

“I’ve known him not even a week,” she said, almost to herself. “One week, and he’s already tangled in things he doesn’t deserve. And yeah… he probably thinks I pushed him away because I wanted to.”

She finally looked back to Iyen, one brow lifting.
“A decade, huh?” Her tone was dry. “I think you’re an optimist.”

But this time, she didn’t roll her eyes. Not at Iyen. Not anymore.

The moment Sjan-dehk and her eyes met, it was like the rest of the room—its tension, its crumbling civility, the ghosts walking in silk—blurred into the background.

He came.

And gods, he said her name like it still meant something.

The sound of it was soft, but it hit her like a tremor beneath the skin. And then his hand…his hand, rough from ropes and salt air, warm and certain, settled on her bare shoulder.

Her breath caught.

It wasn’t dramatic. No sharp intake, no gasp. Just the quiet stilling of breath like a ripple freezing across still water. The warmth of his palm spread down her back, sent a bloom of heat straight into her chest and spiraled low in her belly. It wasn’t just the touch—it was the gentleness of it, the anchor in it, the quiet, unspoken promise that she wasn’t alone.

Her shoulder leaned into it before she could stop herself.

Just a little.

Just enough to betray how much she wanted to lean in fully.

Her heart fluttered…no, that was too sweet a word. It pounded. Slammed against her ribs like it wanted out. And for one stupid second, she let herself imagine the impossible, that she could reach up, place her hand over his, and everything would feel safe for just a moment longer.

But the moment passed.

He pulled away.

The absence left a cold print on her skin.

The sting of it surprised her.

It was ridiculous, really, how much she hated the loss of that hand. Like she’d been holding onto something warm in the middle of a storm, and now the wind was back.

Her lashes lowered slightly to hide the flicker of ache in her eyes.

She hadn’t even realized how much she’d wanted to feel that touch again until it was gone.

Iyen’s teasing jab jolted her back into the moment, and Kalliope let out a low breath, barely a laugh.

“No,” she murmured, her voice softer than usual. “I didn’t mind.”

Not even a little.

Her eyes lifted to meet his again, lashes low, mouth curving, not into a smirk, but something quieter. Gentler. And then, with just the faintest tilt to her head, she let that familiar edge slip back in.

“But if you’re going to touch me like that,” she said, her voice dipping into something warm and wicked, “don’t take your hand away so fast next time. It’s rude to tease a girl like that.”

She let that linger, like perfume in the air, then sobered.

The flirtation faded from her expression, and something more serious, something softer, took its place. Her fingers brushed the rim of her glass, then stilled.

“I owe you an apology,” she said at last, quieter now. “For earlier. For how I acted.”

She glanced briefly at Iyen, then back to him.

“I told her part of it already, but you deserve to hear it too. When you carried me in…I wasn’t ashamed of you. I didn’t want you to stop.” Her gaze lowered a beat, shame flickering beneath her lashes. “But someone else from my past is here tonight. Someone dangerous. And when I saw them… all I could think about was getting you away from them before they saw you with me.”

Her fingers flexed lightly on the tablecloth.

“I didn’t want you marked. Didn’t want you noticed. I panicked. And then I made it worse by pulling away and walking right into another mess.”

Her voice was steadier now, but still low. Still laced with that unshakable thread of guilt.

“I know it might’ve looked like rejection. Or confusion. Or worse. But it wasn’t about you, Sjan-dehk. It was about trying to protect you in the only way I knew how.”

A pause.

She scanned the room again and noted the emptying tables, the nobles in hushed conversation, the tension she could feel more than see.

“It could be nothing,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Just noble drama. Scandals. Drunken politics.”

Her eyes found his again, this time holding.

“But just in case it’s not... I’d rather you stay close.” She offered a faint, crooked smile. “Besides. I feel like I need to make it up to you for being rude.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: Banquet Hall
Interactions: @Rodiak Zarai & Matthias, @CitrusArms Stratya
Attire: Look Leo! Green! Also hair…

---

Before Stratya could fully settle in beside her, Torvi nodded toward the dark-furred beast resting like a shadow at her feet. “This is Fenrys,” she said simply, with a flicker of pride in her voice. “He is a bit more polite than he looks. So long as you are.”

Fenrys lifted his head slightly, golden eyes locking on Stratya with quiet intelligence. His tail flicked once in what might have been approval as he briefly sniffed her hand, before he settled back down with a low, huffing sigh.

When Stratya shared the story of her fox, Torvi listened with visible interest. She didn’t interrupt once, her expression softening at the image of a lone kit curling behind a child for warmth. Her hand idly stroked behind Fenrys’ ears as the tale unfolded.

“A creature choosing you,” she murmured once Stratya had finished, “says more than most people’s oaths ever could.” She offered the knight a small, approving smile. “Sounds like the little one had good instincts. Much like Fenrys.”

Then came the arrival of a tall, well-built man with the kind of plain, crisp fashion that almost made him more appealing by contrast. Two cakes in hand, he looked like a man with excellent priorities. Torvi raised her brow as Zarai mistakenly waved him over, only for him to take his assigned seat near them instead.

“Mmm,” Torvi purred, golden gaze flicking toward the newcomer. “A pity. I was starting to hope the staff had gotten handsomer.” Her voice dipped into playful warmth. “But I suppose if you come bearing sweets, we can forgive the lack of an apron.”

Her teasing faded into a moment of sharpened focus as, one by one, notable faces began to vanish from the hall. Duchess Victoria, storming out in a haze of ruined silk and red-faced fury. Thea and Ariella, with that shared storm in their steps. Another intriguing individual, not far behind them, eyes too sharp. Olivia and Kazumin, quiet but decisive. There was something in Olivia's posture that caught Torvi's eye and her gaze lingered for a moment. Then Lady Violet left, broken hearted and soon followed by her mother. Alexander and Lorenzo, chaos and wine incarnate. Then Charlotte, Count Fritz, Cassius.

And finally, Mina.

Dragging Roman.

That gave Torvi pause.

Her golden gaze lingered on them just a second longer than the others. Her lips pursed thoughtfully before she leaned back in her seat and swirled her wine with calculated ease. Even Zarai had gotten up, but she seemed to be looking for something and not looking to leave the room. She was upset with Lorenzo, however.

“So many running,” she said, her tone casual. “A banquet should not feel like a battlefield. And yet…” She let the words trail off, eyes flicking back to her company.

She took another sip and turned to Stratya and the new man with a languid smile. “Seems we’re the ones with the sense to stay seated and let the games play out.” Her voice lowered into something amused, velvety. “Or perhaps we’re just the most dangerous ones in the room.”

She set down her glass, looking between them both. “I do hope you’re both the sort who enjoy a little danger.”

She then shifted her attention to the man--Sir Matthias, if she remembered the name from the rearranged seating. Her eyes softened just a touch.

“Sir Matthias, is it not?” she asked, tilting her head. “You arrived late, but with cake. An excellent strategy. I think that is called winning hearts through stomachs.” She arched a brow, clearly not being serious about the cakes, her tone teasing as she added, “What’s your secret, hmm? Or are you here simply to charm us with sugar and silence?”

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Elodie

__________________________________________________________ Basic Information __________________________________________________________ • Name | Elodie Ashbourne • Nickname(s) | Ellie, Elle-Belle, Snickerdoodle • Age | 25 • Gender | Female • Birthday | October 13th • Race | Vampire (Spawn) • Rank/Status | Unclaimed Spawn Appearance __________________________________________________________ [+] • Height | 5’3 • Build | Soft and curvy; slight plush hourglass frame • Eye Color | Hazel, but red when she's hungry • Hair Color & Style | Long strawberry blonde waves, usually half-up in sweet feminine styles • Skin Tone | Creamy porcelain with what used to be a rosy flush. She's quite pale now. • Notable Marks | Faint scars on her wrists and ankles, subtle bite mark on collarbone, faint branding scar on the back of her shoulder which is a symbol burned in by the traffickers to mark her as property, and small puncture scars on the insides of her arms, evidence of repeated blood draws and magical injections • Typical Clothing Style | Oversized sweaters, soft vintage pieces, flowing mini and midi dresses in soft florals, lace, or gingham, puff-sleeved blouses, Mary Jane flats, worn-in ankle boots, knit tights and ruffled socks, hair ribbons, crochet shawls and scarves, etc • Aura/First Impression | To humans, Elodie is a breath of warmth in a dark world. It's like stepping into a sunlit café on a rainy day. She’s soft smiles, honeyed laughter, and the comforting scent of cinnamon and clove. But to the supernatural? Something doesn't sit right. Her presence prickles faintly at the edges of instinct, like a melody played slightly off-key. There's nothing overt, just an inexplicable wrongness beneath the sugar-sweet exterior, like something old and wild trying to wear a smile. Talk to her and you'll realize she doesn't even realize it's there. • Voice | Her tone is airy and kind, like someone who sings to flowers and speaks in lullabies. But there’s a barely-there quiver when she’s caught off guard, the kind of crackle that comes from someone smiling through their own unraveling. Relationships __________________________________________________________ [+] • Openness to Friendship (1-5) | 5 • Openness to Romance (1-5) | 3 • Romantic Preferences | Elodie is drawn to those who seem unshakable, people who carry heavy burdens but still try to do good. She finds quiet comfort in their steadiness, and maybe a little poetry in the way they pretend not to notice her lingering glances. She doesn't flirt to play games; she flirts because she feels too much and doesn’t know what else to do with it. Her heart still bruises easy, so she tucks her feelings behind warm smiles and kind gestures. She finds it intoxicating being the softness in their storm, the gentle contrast to their grit. What she craves most is someone who sees her for what she is, both the sugar and the sorrow, and chooses her anyway. But since her turning, she's terrified of getting too close, afraid her hunger might one day hurt someone she loves. • Current Romantic Interests | She may have a bit of a crush on a certain Warden friend, but is hesitant • View on Forbidden Relationships | She sees forbidden romances the same way she sees thunderstorms through a window–dangerous, beautiful, and impossible to look away from. There's something deeply romantic to her about love that defies expectation, especially now that she herself is something that shouldn’t exist. After all, her own life has become one big secret so why shouldn’t love be too? • Biggest Turn-ons | Someone brushing hair behind her ear or touching her face softly ✦ Hands–especially skilled or calloused ones ✦ Unexpected wit or teasing that catches her off guard ✦ Passion restrained just long enough to unravel her slowly ✦ Feeling like someone would burn the world to keep her safe • Biggest Turn-offs | Being dismissed or talked over ✦ Indifference to human life ✦ Mockery of vulnerability or softness ✦ Being treated like a burden or "broken thing” ✦ Cold, detached flirtation–she needs heart, not a performance • Known Friends | Sean Stone • Known Enemies | Those that kidnapped her and sold her • Known Family | A father she doesn't know. Her mother is deceased, died from cancer when she was 17.

Psychology ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Hobbies/Interests | Baking ✦ Collecting antique tea cups ✦ Mixing and brewing loose leaf tea ✦ Sketching ✦ Singing and humming to herself ✦ Brewing coffee ✦ Reading ✦ Making pressed flower bookmarks • Likes | Cinnamon in most anything ✦ The sound of rain ✦ Old books with cracked spines and handwritten notes ✦ Tea ✦ Coffee ✦ Baked goods ✦ Chocolate ✦ Sweets • Dislikes | Supernatural creatures who act like gods among mortals ✦ People who mistake politeness for weakness ✦ The scent of formaldehyde and steel (it lingers from the lab) ✦ Being alone with her thoughts for too long ✦ That some nights, she wants to be a monster ✦ People who put milk in before the tea bag–she’s judging ✦ Blood packs that leak and stain her vintage cardigans ✦ People who don’t return her Tupperware (she knows who you are) • Fears | Losing control and hurting someone she loves ✦ Being hunted like she’s just another monster ✦ Waking up surrounded by blood and not remembering why ✦ Being locked away again… and used ✦ Falling in love… and being their ruin ✦ That the sweetness she clings to is just pretend • Habits | Hums lullabies without realizing it ✦ Bakes way too much when stressed ✦ Uses tea & coffee blends to express emotions (e.g., “Sorry” tea, “Don’t freak out” espresso, “I’m spiraling” blonde roast) ✦ Talks to the pastries while baking, like they’re her emotional support squad ✦ Twirls her hair when she lies (she’s terrible at lying) ✦ Names inanimate objects in her shop–yes, the espresso machine is named Sir Frothington ✦ Instinctively covers her fangs with her hand when laughing too hard ✦ Apologizes to spiders before relocating them • Vices | Sugar addiction ✦ Daydreaming inappropriate scenarios ✦ Caffeine obsession ✦ Spicy romance novels Core Motivation Elodie longs to be the warmth someone runs to, not the shadow they flee from. She wants to believe there’s still good in her. That despite the blood on her lips and the storm inside her chest, she can be something soft, something safe. If she can be loved without fear, if she can be someone’s light in the dark, then maybe she hasn’t lost herself entirely. Maybe she’s still worth saving. Personality Overview Elodie Ashbourne is the kind of girl who smells like cinnamon sugar and chamomile tea. She greets the world with a warm smile, bakes cookies for strangers, and hums old love songs when she thinks no one’s listening. On the surface, she’s the picture of comfort–gentle, nurturing, and sweet in a way that makes people instinctively soften around her. But sweetness doesn’t mean softness, not entirely. Elodie has a quiet, stubborn flame inside her. It's a subtle sass in her wit, a coyness in her smiles, and a surprising boldness when her heart’s on the line. She’ll flirt in honeyed tones and mean it, even if she pretends she doesn’t. Beneath her softness is steel, and beneath that, a storm she doesn’t know how to tame. Since being turned, something darker simmers under her skin. She hides it behind cardigans and kindness, but it bleeds through in flashes. In the way her eyes linger too long on a pulse, in the way her smile falters when she’s hungry, or when she’s scared she might hurt someone she loves. Other supernatural creatures can sense it…that wrongness, that subtle static in the air when she’s near. There’s something off about her, something just… not quite right, even to them. She’s a cinnamon roll, just one that might burn your fingers if you get too close to the center.

Background ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Current Occupation | Owner & Operator of “Honey & Hemlock” – a cozy, whimsical coffee and tea shop • Level of Schooling | Culinary certification & a bit of community college • Past Occupations | Freelance baker/farmers’ market vendor • Socioeconomic Status | Lower middle class • History Summary | Elodie was born to a gentle-hearted florist mother and a father who left when she was only four. Her mother did everything in her power to give Elodie a childhood steeped in love, teaching her to see magic in every bloom and comfort in every cup of tea and coffee. They were close, more like best friends than mother and daughter, and their little apartment always smelled like sugar, soil, and fresh-cut flowers. When her mother passed away from cancer just before Elodie's eighteenth birthday, it left her with a wound that never quite healed. But she pressed on, chasing the dream they once whispered about late at night: opening a coffee and tea shop filled with plants and pastries and love. She worked tirelessly–first as a florist’s assistant, then juggling other jobs–until she finally saved enough to put herself through culinary school and then to open her cafe. It became her sanctuary. And it was there she met Sean. At first, he was just another regular, quiet and unreadable, but she learned his order, greeted him with a smile and a “hot blonde Americana,” slipped him extra pastries, and slowly began trying to warm his edges. But that sweet, sleepy dream she built for herself shattered one cold night. She remembers the scent of pastries still clinging to her sweater, the keys jingling in her hand as she locked up the shop…then arms. A cloth. Darkness. The black market doesn't ask for names. She was cargo. Her captors had sharp smiles and empty eyes, and they sold her to something worse: a vampire obsessed with replicating the effects of Fae blood without the consequences. To that end, he'd caged a Fae and siphoned its magic, conducting brutal experiments on kidnapped humans–testing, tweaking, killing. The magic warped them in subtle, horrifying ways. Most didn’t survive. She still hears their screams in her sleep. She doesn’t know if she was meant to survive. Doesn’t know if she was turned on purpose. She only knows she woke up surrounded by torn limbs and shredded corpses. Woke up to blood coating the walls, magic humming faintly in the air, and the Fae gone. Something in that room had snapped, and if it was her, she doesn’t want to remember. She ran. Staggering and starved, her fangs aching, she stumbled through alleyways, trying to find her way home. The hunger clawed at her until she couldn’t see straight. She begged herself not to do it. But the man turned the corner too fast. He wasn’t even doing anything wrong. She just... couldn’t stop. She drank. And drank. She's too afraid to think about what happened next, just knows she ran from his limp form, sobbing. She finally found her way back to the cafe. That’s where someone found her, Mr. Hot Blonde Americana himself. And he helped her. Now, a year later, she has reopened Honey & Hemlock, hired a few to work the day shift, and often works the new nightshift herself.		Race-Specific Questions ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ Race info ▸ Vampires ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Born or Turned? | Turned • Blood Source Preference | Synthetic blood–though she secretly struggles with temptation toward human blood • Blood Addiction Risk (1-5) | 4 • View on Fae Blood Ban | Wise choice, but also a bit terrifying • Views on Mortals | Protective, but secretly jealous of them • Views on Fae | Afraid, but intrigued • Views on Lycan | Neutral, but wary Miscellaneous ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ • Theme Song | Angels Don’t Cry - Ellise • Favorite Food | Cinnamon rolls, lavender shortbread cookies, sweet coffee with just a drop of blood, & warm synthetic blood with cinnamon syrup • Favorite Animal(s) | Calico cats, luna moths, and spiders • Favorite Music Genre | Truthfully she likes a little bit of everything, but really loves Disney music and musicals • Favorite Haunt | Her coffee shop, Honey & Hemlock, Sundown Diner, Neon Lanes, & Silverleaf Mall • Signature Weapon | A disarming smile and a perfectly timed baked good • Preferred Vices | Overindulgence in sweets, romantic daydreaming, & synthetic blood spiking • Pet Peeve | Anyone who speaks over her, loud chewing or slurping, & being called “fragile” • Guilty Pleasure | Wearing pretty nightgowns to bed even though she lives alone, smutty fantasy books…just for the plot, & cuddling up with a blood pack and a scandalous novel like it’s wine and chocolate

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Race: Yuan-ti
Class: Rogue Arcane Assassin
Location: The enchanting bathroom
Interactions: @princess Phia @Oso Talis & Liana
Mentions:
Equipment:

Full Equipment List

🌸 A finely crafted katana
🌸 A concealed dagger laced with paralytic venom
🌸 Throwing needles coated with different poisons
🌸 Black silk combat outfit reinforced with hidden Mithril chainmail
🌸 Soft-soled boots that allow for near-silent movement
🌸 Smoke bombs and illusion charms for quick escapes
🌸 A set of forged documents under multiple aliases
🌸 A tea set and an assortment of teas
🌸 Incense

Attire:
Gold Balance: 80
Injuries: None currently, but has numerous faded scars on her body

Meiyu stepped through the haze of shattered tile and flickering shadow, each movement silent, deliberate, feline. Her eyes, still gleaming in the fading strobe of arcane light, scanned the scene with a predator’s poise.

The satchel was gone. Liana had slipped from her grasp like smoke. Her jaw tightened. Not from grief. Not even rage. But sheer, razor-edged frustration.

So close.

Then her gaze fell on the girl.

She approached the stall with eerie calm, stopping just outside the blood-slicked threshold. Her gaze swept over Phia, cradling the girl like some tragic painting, and then down to Talis–barely breathing, clinging to life by threads already fraying.

Meiyu said nothing at first. She simply crouched, slowly and gracefully, resting one elbow on her knee as she looked the dying girl over like a puzzle half-solved.

A breath passed.

And then she sighed.

“You poor little thing.” Her voice was soft. Almost warm. Like a lullaby with something sharp hidden in its notes. “She gutted you like a rabbit and left you bleeding on tile like an afterthought. I imagine that hurts.”

She leaned in just slightly, her expression unreadable, the way one might study a butterfly pinned beneath glass. Her eyes narrowed as they flicked over Talis’ body–not in sympathy, but in scrutiny. Blood, yes. Lots of it. But it was the veins that caught her attention. A delicate tracery of black branching beneath the skin like ink spilled under glass.

Meiyu’s brows drew together faintly.

“Fascinating…” she murmured, mostly to herself. She tilted her head, studying the branching marks with a sharp, clinical eye. “Not natural. That’s not any venom I’ve worked with.”

As her eyes flicked upward, they caught on the trail of blood still slowly trickling down Phia’s cheek. Meiyu’s gaze lingered there, then shifted to the shattered mirror behind her, the fractured wood, the blood on the frame. Her expression didn’t change, but her tone cooled.

“And you…” she said to Phia, not unkindly, but edged in quiet astonishment, “You took a hell of a beating. I watched her smash your face into that frame like she was stamping out a cigarette.” Her head tilted slightly. “I’ve seen girls die for far less.”

Then, with a slow exhale, she shifted her weight and crouched fully beside Talis. Her eyes met the girl’s fluttering gaze with eerie calm.

“You’re dying.” There was no cruelty in her tone. Just truth, laid bare like silk on stone. “I can’t save you. And unless she knows what this is…” She gestured to Phia first and then to the black veins. “Then any attempt to do anything could make it worse and make it more painful.” She reached forward, brushing a blood-damp lock of hair from Talis’ forehead with a gesture far too gentle for what she was.

“But I can take the suffering from you.” Her fingers ghosted just above the girl’s skin, as if testing the air between them. “The fear. The burning in your chest. The cold in your bones.” She smiled, small and soft, the kind that made wolves seem almost merciful.
“All I want in return...”

She paused–just long enough for tension to coil tight.

“…is the truth.”

Meiyu’s eyes shone brighter now, hunger hidden in grace. “What was in that satchel, little sparrow?” she whispered, almost sweetly. “Tell me. And I’ll make the rest easy. Let someone else know what you were so desperately trying to protect.”

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Lys Solwynd

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Location: The Eclipse • Time: Dusk

Interactions: Handsome Stranger (if someone wishes to be said handsome stranger, let me know) • Mentions: N/A

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The glitter bomb exploded like a miniature starburst on impact, showering the alley in shimmering flecks of gold, pink, and venom green. Somewhere, someone screamed. Somewhere else, someone cheered. And in the wake of the chaos stood Lys Solwynd, five feet of smug satisfaction in combat boots and fishnets, her wild hair glowing with streaks of green where the glitter had caught and stuck.

“Oops,” she purred, twirling the now-empty popper around her finger like a dagger. “Swore this was the bleedin’ rubbish bin, turns out it was a feckin’ priest.”

The old man she’d accidentally bombed was still sputtering behind her, now covered in enough sparkle to summon a minor deity of camp, or at least host a Eurovision finale. She didn’t look back. It was Halcyon, if you didn’t leave the house expecting mild arson or impromptu enchantments, that was on you.

Instead, Lys sauntered down the neon-slick street, humming a song only she could hear. The nightlife had risen in full color around her now. Music pulsed from alleyways like heartbeats, laughter spilled from cracked windows, and magic buzzed in the air like static waiting for a soul to touch.

Tonight, she wasn’t heading to her little antique shop. No, tonight called for something louder. Wilder. Louder and wilder.

The Eclipse loomed ahead–an underground supernatural rave club wrapped in shadow and soaked in glamour. Lights pulsed in time with the beat that throbbed through the pavement itself, and the bouncers didn’t so much check IDs as they sensed your vibe. Lys walked right past with a wink, leaving a trail of sparkling footprints on the concrete behind her.

Inside, the club was chaos incarnate. Lycans danced like they were trying to break the floor. Vampires lounged in corners like velvet daggers. Fae spun illusions in mid-air for drinks and dares.

Lys made a beeline for the bar, snagged a drink from someone else’s tray without asking, and hopped up onto the counter with a predator’s grin. The bartender blinked up at her. “You can’t be up–”

“I am, though, love...” she cut in, sipping from the glass. “And before ya tell me to get down, just know I hexed your tip jar to yodel if ya so much as whisper ‘no.’”

The jar let out a faint yodel.

“See?” she beamed. “We’re already havin' fun.”

And with that, Lys Solwynd raised her glass high, the ice clinking like fae bells, and toasted the night, the club, and whatever beautiful disaster she was about to cause next.

"Sláinte, ya filthy animals!" she crowed, her Irish lilt thick as honey and twice as wicked. "Here’s to chaos, bad choices, and gettin’ lucky before sunrise!"

She threw back the drink like it owed her rent and leapt from the bar with the grace of a misfired spell.

And promptly crashed straight into a stranger.

Hard chest. Sharply dressed. Smelled like expensive sin and worse decisions. Lys bounced off him like a glitter-streaked pinball and caught herself with a laugh, gripping the stranger for balance.

"Well now," she purred, lips curling into a smirk as her golden-green eyes flicked up to meet his. "Aren’t you a lovely bit of trouble. Fancy helpin’ a girl make some bad decisions tonight, or are ya the sort that needs convincin’?"

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: Banquet Hall
Interactions/Mentions: @Tpartywithzombi Violet, @Apex Sunburn Iyen & Sjan-dehk, @princess Charlotte, @JJ Doe Fritz, @FunnyGuy Alexander & Lorenzo, @ReusableSword Roman
Aesthetic: Outfit

Kalliope didn’t immediately answer.

Her eyes had drifted again, this time not out of avoidance, but necessity. One by one, people were leaving. First Violet Damien, storming out with her jaw tight and expression shattered. Then Lorenzo, practically dragging Alexander out like a man on the edge of losing control. Charlotte, a soft blur in silk, slipped through the doors not long after them and not far behind her was another man. Then Mina Blackwood, wild-eyed and high on something Kalliope couldn’t name, now had Roman by the arm, half-pleading, half-commanding as she tried to get him out of his seat.

It was all unraveling.

Every instinct in her spine screamed of something deeper, something wrong. This wasn’t a feast anymore–it was a powder keg, and someone was playing with matches.

And in the middle of it, Iyen was still smiling like this was all some casual exchange over fucking bread.

Kalliope’s hand flexed against her glass, knuckles pale, before letting go and leaning back with a sigh. hen she finally spoke, her voice was low. Calm. Sharp-edged in the way of broken glass laid gently on silk.

Her lips quirked, dry and amused.

“You’re a strange one,” she said softly, not quite a compliment, but not an insult either. “You come in swinging like a drunk in a bar brawl, and now you’re giving me speeches about ghosts and brotherly loyalty.”

Her gaze flicked briefly toward Sjan-dehk, her expression flickering–wistful, maybe. Uncertain.

“You're not wrong,” Her voice was quieter now, stripped of the venom and sharpness. “About talking to him. About him thinking he’s the one who messed up.” Her voice caught slightly, just enough to betray the tension threading her chest. “I didn’t mean to make him feel that way.”

She glanced back to Iyen, the faintest frown tugging at her brow. “You say you’ve looked out for him for years. Good.” She hesitated, then added, “Keep doing that. Just… don’t mistake my instinct to protect him as some kind of rejection. If he’s smart, and I think he is, he’ll understand that eventually.”

A pause, then a low huff of laughter slipped from her throat.

“And for the record, I’d pay good coin to watch him try and swim back to Jafi. Might even pack him snacks.”

The humor was faint, but genuine, laced with a hint of fondness she couldn’t quite choke down. Not even now.

She then eyed the offered mug like it might bite. Her brows arched slightly, not in suspicion, but something wry. Tired. She didn’t reach for it–yet–but her expression softened a fraction as she leaned her cheek into her knuckles. “You’re really committed to this redemption arc, huh?” she murmured with dry amusement. Her gaze flicked to the mug, then back to Iyen’s face. “Keep this up and I might have to stop glaring at you every time you open your mouth.” She didn’t take the drink, but the weight in her shoulders eased slightly, the edge around her mouth curving into something close to truce. Not friendship. Not yet. But maybe the first step toward something less flammable.

“Thank you,” she said, and this time, she meant it. “But keep it. I think we both need to stay sharp tonight.”

Her tone shifted just a little, softening by a degree.

“I don’t know what kind of ghosts you’ve had to fight off, but if they were anything like mine… you might want to keep your blade close, too.”

Then her eyes found Sjan-dehk, just briefly, and she held his gaze.

Not beckoning with a wave. Not calling him out loud.

Just…looking.

A silent request.

A quiet pull that said, Please come here? Something might be happening. And I want you near if it does.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Mina Blackwood

Time: Evening
Location: Banquet Hall
Attire: Dress & Hair
Interaction: @Helo Callum/Clarence, @ReusableSword Roman, @FunnyGuy Alexander/Lorenzo, @Tpartywithzombi Violet, @SilverPaw Wulfric, @princess King Edin & Queen Alibeth, Calbert, @Apex Sunburn Iyen
Mentions:

Mina’s fingers stilled on the stem of her wine glass, her expression smoothing into a mask of pleasant civility. But the burn that crawled up her spine was unmistakable–slow, deliberate, furious. Edin’s words weren’t just condescending; they were a performance. A public warning, thinly veiled in power and patronizing charm and the way his eyes lingered on her, like she were meat on the banquet table rather than a noblewoman in her own right, sent a sick chill beneath her skin.

She didn’t speak right away. That alone was her first act of defiance. And then, she smiled. Not sweetly. Not coyly. Something far more dangerous.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice velvet-draped steel, “and I thank you for the clarity. It’s always helpful to know precisely what’s expected of a woman.”

Her eyes lingered just a moment longer than they should have on his goblet–the weight of it, the way his fingers wrapped around the stem–and then they slid to Queen Alibeth with the same measured grace. “I imagine the burden is all the heavier when a woman must carry the crown… and the kingdom that comes with it.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, she raised her own glass. Not in toast, but in perfect mimicry of Edin’s earlier motion. And drank.

Then Mina’s hand stilled on her wine glass, the glint in her eyes dimming as Roman’s words sank in. The easy charm, the mocking turn of phrase–“a gentle caress out of passion”--soured on her tongue like curdled cream. She knew Roman. Or at least, she thought she had. But this? This flippant cruelty, this public smearing of Violet under the guise of jest, felt wrong. Not just unkind…unnatural. It carried the same off-kilter polish she’d seen earlier in Prince Callum. Too smooth. Too controlled. Like something else was steering the man beneath the skin.
Her gaze flicked between the two of them, a chill blooming at the base of her spine. No, not men. Puppets. And something about the way Roman looked at her, how he lumped her in with the “pleasures” and “rumors” like she was part of the theater, made her stomach turn. Her jaw tensed, lips pressing into a faint smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. If this was a game, she wasn’t sure what side Roman was playing for. But she wouldn’t call him out. Not yet. Not here. Because if she was right–if something inhuman was at work—then Violet wasn’t the only one at risk of being burned.

She sat in poised silence, but her eyes followed every word that passed between Calbert and Violet like a hawk tracking a storm on the horizon. In her observations of others when visiting Caesonia, she had always known Violet to be composed, delicate but sharp…But this? This was something else entirely. Watching her unravel, just enough to reveal the bruised heart beneath, stirred something in Mina that felt dangerously close to guilt. The glance Violet cast her way, full of quiet accusation wrapped in irony, didn’t go unnoticed either. And perhaps it stung more than it should have.

Her fingers brushed the rim of her glass again, thoughtful now, nervous. It was like a shadow had passed behind Roman’s eyes, the same unsettling shift she’d glimpsed earlier in Prince Callum. Not identical, no, but eerily adjacent. A false composure, like something else was holding the reins too tightly. Mina wasn’t one to chase specters, they often chased her, but it wasn’t paranoia if the pattern began to repeat. Her pulse ticked under her skin as she quietly replayed the glances, the words, the cracks in the mask.

What if it wasn’t just Roman? What if whatever was hollowing him out had touched Callum too?

What if it was coordinated?

And gods help them… what if they weren’t the only ones?

Mina flinched as Violet stood, her hand trembling in the air, fury dissolving into devastation. The sight cut deeper than she expected. It had only been days since she had put someone else in Violet’s position. She’d watched Munir’s heart break in real time when she betrayed him with carefully chosen words, thinking she was protecting him. The sting of that choice hadn’t faded; it clung to her like ash, smoldering. Watching Violet unravel now wasn’t just painful, it was a mirror. One she hadn’t been ready to face.

Her jaw tightened, the wine in her glass sloshing from the force of her grip. She set it down carefully, deliberately, but her fingers trembled as they left the stem. Violet’s heartbreak wasn’t hers to claim, but the familiarity of it made Mina’s stomach twist. And then there was Roman. Sitting there. Unbothered. Watching the girl stumble away in ruin while he picked apart dessert like it was any other evening.

Something cracked.

Without a word, she leaned toward him, her hand snapping out to grip his forearm–not gently, not playfully, but with force. Her voice was low, sharp as a blade but threaded with something fragile beneath, using Lorenzo’s distraction to her advantage.
“We need to talk.” Her eyes, usually warm and teasing, burned cold.

“Now.”

She scooted her chair out some and tugged on his arm, not rising unless he decided to indulge her.

Meanwhile, Count Sebastian Blackwood had, for a moment, entirely forgotten that anyone had spoken to him at all. His wine glass hovered just inches from his lips, untouched, as his eyes tracked the escalating drama across the table–Calbert’s icy words, Violet’s trembling devastation, Cassius’ volcanic fury, and Roman’s increasingly disturbing composure.

It was chaos. Refined, dangerous chaos. For a long, stretched beat, Sebastian simply watched it unfold with the strained poise of a man who had once hoped this evening would be uneventful.

Then, belatedly, his brow furrowed as something tugged at the back of his mind. A voice. A question.

Earlier, Iyen had posed a question to him, one that had piqued his interest. However, the ensuing drama had diverted his attention. Now, as he turned to respond, he noticed Iyen engaged in animated conversation. A striking redhead now had her full attention, their interaction looking far more engaging than whatever polite diplomacy he might’ve offered. Realizing the moment had passed, Sebastian offered a faint, self-deprecating smile and returned his gaze to the table.

He reached for his goblet, swirling the wine absentmindedly, the rich liquid catching the ambient light. The once-inviting banquet now felt distant, as if he were a solitary figure amidst a sea of revelry, his thoughts adrift in the undercurrents of courtly intrigue.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

Time: Evening
Location: Outside the Banquet Hall
Interactions: @TpartywithZombi Ariella
Mentions: @Helo Leo, @Lava Alckon Drake, @princess Duchess Victoria
Outfit: Dress, Hair, and Makeup

---

Thea startled when she felt an arm slide around hers. Her first instinct was to pull away, but she didn’t. She glanced at Ariella in surprise.

They barely knew each other, only traded glances at events and the occasional polite greeting in passing. And yet, here she was. A bottle of wine in one hand, warmth in her smile, and no judgment in her eyes. Thea blinked, confused for a beat, but her feet kept moving and she let the other woman guide her away from the wreckage of the banquet.

Her voice landed gently, not as a joke, not as pity. Just… understanding.

Thea didn’t answer at first. She couldn’t. Her throat was too tight. But her fingers curled lightly around Ariella’s arm, grateful for the anchor.

The cool night air hit her as the doors opened, and for a moment, she could finally breathe.

She took a long pull straight from the bottle, the wine sharp and burning, but it steadied her. If only a little.

Ariella’s voice filled the quiet beside her, softer now. “She threatened me again, on her way out. I didn’t even bother responding this time. Karma’s coming. Sooner or later.”

Thea’s eyes flicked to her, searching her face, her expression shocked followed by some comcern.

And then she spoke, her voice small and raw.

“No. I’m not okay, if I'm being honest.”

It was the truth, stripped bare. No theatrics. No sarcasm. Just truth.

“I think I ruined everything. Leo’s upset. Drake’s upset. My mother…well, she was never proud to begin with, but I think I just gave her a new reason to hate me.” Her grip tightened on the bottle. “I didn’t mean to turn things into a scene. I just… I don’t know. I was trying to do something right for once. And now it feels like everyone I care about is just… disappointed.”

She laughed bitterly and wiped at her cheek with the back of her hand.

“And your mother—gods, I just got so irritated watching her treat you like that. Like you weren’t enough. Like nothing you ever did would be right in her eyes. I’m so tired of mothers like that. Of people who act so perfect while ripping others to shreds.” Her voice trembled with quiet rage. “They gossip and sneer and call it concern, but they don’t know a damn thing about the people they’re judging. They don’t ask what someone’s been through. They don’t care.”

She took another drink, slower this time, and exhaled sharply.

“I just… I wish people would stop assuming. Just ask. Just check in.”

Her words slowed, her gaze shifting to Ariella.

“And that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

She blinked, the realization softening her. “You barely know me. And you still came after me. You didn’t have to. But you did.”

She looked away, breath catching slightly. “That’s what I want from people, you know? Just… that. Not judgment. Not cold stares. Just someone who gives a damn.”

She glanced away, swallowing hard.

“I know I’m too much. Too loud. Too reckless. I drink too much, talk too much, feel everything way too big. And maybe that’s why people keep leaving. Or looking at me like I’m this exhausting thing they have to manage.”

The words cracked near the end. She took another swig, more desperate this time.

“I don’t want your brother to hate me,” she whispered, eyes downcast. “He’s… He’s kind. He makes me feel safe. I don’t feel that often.”

She shook her head with a broken laugh.

“I’m sorry. You barely know me, and here I am, crying into wine like some dramatic cautionary tale. But you came after me anyway.” Thea looked at her, voice barely above a breath. “You didn’t have to.”

There was silence for a beat, and in it, Thea’s defenses thinned, just enough to let something else in—something small and scared but stubbornly hopeful.

“Maybe Drake's not the only Edwards who makes me feel safe.”