webboysurf

Descendants

^{#CDB6D6 ....|..... outfit .....|..... Jules' Penthouse}

Vlatava was the hardest operation for Jules. It took a full year of her life, and it still haunted her soul in a way time couldn't mend. She had to build an identity from the ground up. She dyed her hair, learned a new language, changed her accent, and had to put on weight. She had to build relationships, keep detailed profiles on everyone she met, and make a list of every target to hit. She had to do the legwork and plant evidence on a dozen or so loyalists while her team at the office planted the rest of the trails. When all was said and done, forty eight individuals faced the firing squad. All of them were fiercely loyal to the queen, and all were replaced with allies of the client. Other than them, the coup was bloodless. The young queen left the throne willingly, heeding the will of her counselors and regional governors. Of course, loose ends would be a problem. Another three hundred and sixty six souls ended up somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic as collateral damage. Jules’ only consolation was that a different crew sabotaged the engines.

Her father simply slid her the folder and told her to get it done. She was nineteen. The queen she doomed was eleven. The men in suits said it was her job. They said it was for stability in eastern Europe. They said if she didn't do it, someone else would. When it was done, they praised her professionalism.

Jules barely got a grunt of acknowledgement from the old mercenary who raised her before she was handed her next mission.

The sound of a power drill cut through the quiet sounds of her pristine penthouse. She had removed the wood paneling on the far wall of the bedroom, revealing the hollow shell of more recent construction. The tower was built of modularly machined furniture and parts, designed for quick customization. She finished installing the plastic peg board with a few more anchors, wiping the sweat from her brow as she looked at the cases of ordinance behind her. It was tedious work, but necessarily secretive for her line of work. The rest of the people in the tower knew what she did, at least the broad strokes. She saw her handle her own with a gun. She didn't need to hide that violent side of her. What she did need to hide was just how extensive her work was.

Part of it was just a habit. She had set one up one of these caches in every safe house she occupied. It gave her an ease of mind in a line of work so dangerous. In some ways, it was one of the only constants she had. The location, the mission, and the contacts always changed… but this much she could control. It helped when the only contacts she had this time were far less precise than she was used to.

Lucian was an emotional wrecking ball that stunk of overcompensation. His record was hard to argue with in the organization that hired her. Most of the sycophants in the office would rave about the man's dedication and prowess, but Jules had always seen him as a sledgehammer incarnate. He was useful, in the same ways she was, but they were incompatible. She had been a scalpel excising the inconveniences that her employers needed removed while maintaining deniability. A relatively bloodless coup disguised as political change made it harder for foreign nations to interfere with a transition of power. A polished speech after a tragedy disguised who had pulled the strings. Jules operated in the shadows, but Lucian was a proverbial flashbang. Most folks in the IHA would consider working with the man a high honor.

Jules saw his involvement here as a punishment.

She wasn't sure why she had clammed up on her last operation. It was a classic bag job. Set a trap and wrap up the target for the clients. That part was easy, as she had done it before. Maybe the difference was what came after. She had been helping capture elites, mercenaries, and rogue terrorists who posed existential threats for the organization and her father. Killing heroes was a different story altogether. She had a bag tossed over her head, and was dragged into the heart of the operation. She was shoved into a cell and handed a gun. Looking at the man, battered and beaten into a twisted mess of the masked vigilante she had captured… she froze. She couldn’t do it. Especially not after he spoke.

”You aren't him. You don't want this.”

Her father shot the man when she wouldn't. Jules was left to clean up the mess, and was given one last chance to prove herself. Of course, it came with a babysitter who seemed more interested in trying to fuck anything that moved than sowing real chaos. She had learned in Vlatava that establishing a common enemy was beneficial for ingratiating oneself with a group, but it also made it harder to isolate or destabilize the in-group. Luke was making it hard to disrupt the others when he was making himself out to be a worse threat than the real bastards behind it all.

And then there was Ronnie. She had her uses, at least. They now had access to the security system and a backdoor into the ever-growing list of files and evidence stored on the servers downstairs. She was as tactful as Lucian, though, but she had a hard time blaming her. Ronnie was a thief, not an assassin. Her hang-ups over her ex and boundless need for affection were the kinds of base impulses she would expect from a woman of her reputation.

Jules’ hands moved instinctively, organizing the plastic and carbon-fiber weapons in their slots. Bombs, bullets, armor, guns all slotted like pieces of some indiscernible puzzle. She had to store her sniper rifle in a safehouse outside Boston, lest a certain magnetically attuned mutant sweep her penthouse. People already didn't trust her, she didn't need them to have a reason to dig around her things.

Especially not when the center of her secret cache sported a black and orange carbon fiber mask.

Jules hadn't learned her lesson from her last job. She had a clean shot when Tobias was still chasing after Bellamy. Things would be a lot easier with one less mutant on the board to cause trouble, but she couldn't bring herself to aim true. The girl had been defenseless and scared, in a way Jules had understood. Despite years of training to excise that out of her, Jules was still human: she still cared, in some fucked-up kind of way. She couldn’t hurt someone who didn’t deserve it, at least not like that. Not directly.

Jules slid the board back in place over her arsenal when everything was in place. She packed her tools as she thought of what excuses and lies she could feed Lucian or her father when they inevitably had their tantrums. She only hoped it would appease them enough to keep living the lie a little while longer. She liked this identity, and the perks that came with it. It beat cramped servants quarters and or bombed out hovels.

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... jim, theodore, myla, lila barton ............... collabs ....|.... none}

What Lies Below

^{#00aeef ....|..... outfit .....|..... Dev's House -> Sheriff's Station}

"In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don’t ever shine…"

The voice came out more like a croak, whispered softly through lips that still stank of burnt coffee and liquor. The scents got lost in the odors of the old house just off Main Street; a musty leather sofa, old newspaper, cooking gas, bacon, old wood, and that crisp smell of cold air coming from the bathroom window. Dev had been meaning to call Harlan up to get it fixed, but he’d been too busy. He was busy buttoning his tan uniformed shirt and smoothing the freshly ironed fabric to make himself presentable. He caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror, frowning as he caught the glint of yet another gray hair in his eyebrows.

"I will shiver the whole night through…"

He stepped out into his bedroom, quickly walking past the old mattress and box spring that laid in the center of the cramped room. He never quite got around to buying himself an actual bed frame. His foot caught an empty bottle of whiskey, eliciting a wince as it tipped and rolled under his dresser. It was an old, unbalanced thing that came with the house, more of a hassle to move than to just let sit. A couple old mysteries still sat atop it that had a coat of dust on their covers. There wasn’t much time for reading these days, at least when it came to fiction.

"Her husband was a hard-working man…"

The TV in the living room hadn’t seen much use lately. It was hard to catch a signal on satellite when the weather was bad, and the days he came home sober enough to turn on whatever new shit the networks were broadcasting often left him disappointed. Not like he paid much attention to them anyways. Several oversized brown folders were sprawled open on the coffee table, containing incident reports and lined yellow paper with hand-written notes sprawled illegibly. The wall next to the TV had a large map of Pine Ridge taped to a very large cork board. A few little scraps of notepad paper were pinned with red and black thumbtacks containing names, dates, and times. It was unorganized, unconnected, and useless. He had hoped that staring at it enough might eventually provide some insight on what the fuck was happening to the people of Pine Ridge. A couple mostly-empty beer bottles were lined on the floor next to his spot on the couch. He’d clean them up another time, when he could finally muster up the energy to do anything but stew in the defeat that came from his thankless job.

He didn’t even look at the map or the files that morning. He shoved his work into a black leather briefcase with his initials engraved on the handle, the last birthday gift he had gotten before the big fight in Chicago. It was the last vestige of a time when he actually felt accomplished and in control, of a time when cases had answers. He didn’t even know why he bothered keeping the files open, bringing them home and reading them again and taking the same notes over and over. It was sisyphean, his own personal punishment for years of neglect and selfishness bundled into a never-ending cascade of having to repeat the same tired platitudes to the worried people in town. Pine Ridge was a black hole that would suck them all in and wipe them from existence if they stayed long enough. Dev was just one of the sorry souls who had to wait their turn.

Or maybe that was just the alcohol talking.

The song died in the sheriff’s throat, as he closed the latch of his briefcase shut with a sharp click. He let it sit on the coffee table for a moment as he moved to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle of mouthwash that sat next to the dish soap and old sponge. He swished the liquid around in his mouth until he felt satisfied the cool mint would disguise the whiskey enough to pass before spitting it onto a small pile of old dishes. He grabbed his coat, his briefcase, and slipped out the front door that slammed far too hard when it closed.

It was going to be a long day.

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"Terry… I need you near the mine, just in case some tourists want to try and sneak in early for a private tour. Last thing we need is a repeat of last year."

It was hard to call it a roll call when it was just Dev and his two employees in his office. He had a small map in front of him, a photocopy of the festival layout he had gotten from the mayor’s aide. He didn’t have the extra deputy they had last year, given the former sheriff’s untimely demise. All he had left under his purview was a solitary deputy and his desk officer. Deputy Theresa Leighton, Terry for short, was a stocky woman with a warm smile permanently etched on her face. She was in her late twenties, having grown up on a farm two towns over. Her family had sold their place a couple years back, which left her needing a new job. Not a lot of folks were exactly clambering to join law enforcement in rural South Dakota. She was good at her job, if a little too polite and green around the gills. She was another body with a badge to keep things civil, which was about all Dev could ask for these days. Officer William Gibbons was a crotchety old man who had been working at the front desk longer than anyone could remember. His shock of white hair was delicately combed over, his eyes laser focused on Dev behind a set of horn-rimmed glasses. He was taking this far more seriously than Terry or Dev were.

The sheriff shrugged his shoulders. The assignments were easy. Terry would stick around the far side of town by the mines for most of the day, mostly to make sure that no one got lost in the mines and needed rescue. Dev would stick around Main Street with most of the festival. It would do well to keep up appearances, and to be near where the drunkest and rowdiest tourists would congregate. He was expecting to put at least a handful in the drunk tank to sleep things off, if he was lucky. And, of course, Officer Gibbons would spend his evening when he had his fill of the festival reading at his desk and babysitting the poor saps who Dev brought in. It was a functional enough system, if things went according to plans. If they didn’t, he’d think of something on the fly. "If either of you need a few hours this afternoon to rest, I can cover for you. It’s a long shift."

Terry nodded appreciatively. ”I… wouldn’t mind seeing some of the festival. Halloween only comes once a year.”

Dev sighed, leaning back in his chair as he looked up at the deputy. He lifted a pen to scratch at the back of his head. She did deserve a chance to participate in the festival, at least a little bit. She had a lot of years left before she grew jaded with large gatherings. "That’s… yeah. Ok. Let’s see." He glanced at the schedule of the festival, mulling over the idea in his head. He did need to be in the thick of it from the jump, and most folks didn’t get too belligerently drunk until closer to the end. There was a sweet spot in the middle where things should, in theory, be a little less chaotic. "Tell you what… We can swap for a little bit after the first hour. No drinking while on duty, but you can mingle with folks and participate. Deal?" Terry nodded appreciatively. The sheriff looked to Officer Gibbons expectantly, but he simply shook his head. The old man was happy to sit in the quiet station and read, as his festival days had long since passed. With no other questions or concerns, Dev just clapped his hands together. "Alrighty… Radio in if something comes up."

^{interactions ....|.... none ............... mentions ....|.... none ............... collabs ....|.... none}

Reign of the Usurper

^{#ba8f1a ....|..... outfit ............... #068b8c ....|..... outfit ............... cavern ballroom}

The heir of House Ganasen always relished the chance to partake in a celebration, but was surprised by the lavishness and quaintness of a Storvane feast. The rock-hewn, cavernous interior made the festivities feel like some lurid affair more than a grand celebration. Of course, Imran would not complain regardless of which this turned out to be. For now, he would settle to fulfill his role as the dutiful son. He stood up straight, one arm held out for his sister as they followed the procession into the hall. He had a polite smile stretched across his lips, his eyes taking in the sights as his mind wandered. His gaze did fall to the other lords and ladies, lingering on them a bit too long before flicking towards the next set.

”Try not to be as forward as you are with your courtiers, dear brother.” Zhara’s tone was as clipped as it was quiet. Her eyes remained fixed forward, her own fake polite smile on her lips hiding the bite of her words. One hand smoothed the skirt of her dress ”You are, by your nature, our best chance at making advances.”

Imran's smile faltered for a mere moment, a fiery sting in his gaze as he glanced at his sister for a moment. He took a beat to settle the flurry of vitriol that rose in his chest like a rogue wave. It was best to let her have her fun, while she could. ”It is not like you to surrender so quickly.” There was humor in his whispered words, diverting and guiding his sister to her assigned spot at the table with the grace of a much more honorable gentleman. ”I'm sure there is a lord here desperate enough to endure your bile for the rest of their short life.”

Zhara smiled politely in response, her eyes lingering on the faces of the other ladies who were approaching their assigned spots near the Prince. The corner of her mouth curled up into a smirk as she saw how far she was placed from the favored son. It didn’t take a genius to understand the implication, one she had been warned of by her own mother. Independence, intelligence, and industriousness were traits that didn’t suit the ideals of a woman whose only skills involved lying horizontally, or so the Duchess had said on the procession into the keep. Zhara knew full well she would be considered an undesirable match for Dorian, but knew well not to discount the machinations of anyone in the room. She was here for the formality alone, as far as she was concerned. She would take the opportunity for leisure as it came, before returning back to the waves that rocked her to sleep. Life chained to the crown would certainly prove more a sentence for her than she was willing to entertain.

Those thoughts were far too raw to share in passing whispers. ”Oh… you are not strong enough to hear my harshest critiques, Imran.” It was a quick and simple deflection, another light barb to encourage her brother to just pull her chair and leave her be. It seemed rather effective, as she nearly tripped over the hasted steps of her older sibling. They arrived at her seat rather quickly, and Imran was gracious enough to at least slide out his sister’s chair just enough. Zhara offered a polite bow of her head in thanks, running a hand under her dress as she settled down. Imran slid the chair forward just enough for her to settle in, looking up to offer a flirtatious grin to the other ladies for a mere moment. Zhara, on the other hand, offered the other gathered ladies a polite bow of her head.

Imran did have a princess to charm, or at least attempt to. He gracefully stepped around the ornate chairs as he rounded the end of the table, catching a glance of the Princess Rhea with the eldest Járnbjørn. Their exchange seemed remarkably intimate. The game had already begun, it seemed, and he had missed the chance for the first move. As he continued, his eyes briefly locked onto the eldest princess Maeve. She bore the regality expected of a Storvane, a bemused smirk crossing his lips as he noted how manicured her appearance was. He wished he was lucky enough to have a chance to dine with her, just for the opportunity to chip away at the poised guard she would clearly have raised. Instead, Imran continued to circle the table until he found his station, sitting himself down in his seat and immediately lifting his empty glass to the side wordlessly. A servant approached cautiously, filling the cup as the Lord’s gaze fell across the table to Princess Rhea. He lifted his chin proudly, speaking with a warm confidence. ”I see Lord Járnbjørn has put the rest of us suitors at a disadvantage, Your Grace.” The smile and mirth made clear he was in high spirits, unbothered by Elrik’s bold flirtations so early in these meetings; if anything, It made the sport far more interesting. ”I cannot blame him, I must admit. Your laugh has brightened the arduous journey to your lovely home.”

^{interactions ....|.... rhea ............... mentions ....|.... Maeve, Rhea, Elrik, Dorian ............... collabs ....|.... None}

What Lies Below

Dev Sarkar | The Sheriff

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Dev Sarkar...

.................................................... __________________________________________ D E V . S A R K A R ________________________________________________________ 43 | male | heterosexual __________________________________________ ..................▹ hair color | black ..................▹ eye color | brown ..................▹ height | 6' 4" ..................▹ build | average / athletic ..................▹ species | human ..................▹ faction | citizens ..................▹ role | sheriff

. S T R E N G T H S investigator - Once a veteran of the Chicago Police Department, Dev has been around the block when it comes to murder investigations and missing people. He bears degrees in forensic science, has seen more corpses than any person ever should, and knows his way around an interrogation table. marksman - Having served as a police officer and sheriff's deputy, Dev is familiar with a number of firearms and "de-escalation" techniques. He had top marks at the police academy nearly two decades ago, and he doesn't carry a gun around just for show. He hasn't had to use it since moving to Pine Ridge, and he's hoping he won't ever. Of course, he can still be found at the range on his days off. inspiring - Dev has always had a way with people. He can be charming and personable most of the time, often coming across as down to earth. He truly does care for his constituents and friends, and wants the best for them. That being said... he has a commanding presence when he needs to step up in his role as sheriff. W E A K N E S S E S alcoholic - Ever since his divorce, Dev has been hitting the bottle rather heavily. He swings by the bar after his shift, has a drink or two before bed, and has a few interspersed throughout his days off. mundane - When it comes to the supernatural, Dev is a fish out of water. He is entirely unfamiliar with it, except for whatever random shows he caught on cable when he lived back in Chicago. He is completely out of his depth when dealing with monsters, magic, or mysterious unknown forces. middle-aged - Dev is past his prime physically, and it is starting to take a toll on him. He doesn't have as much endurance as he used to, and might have trouble keeping up with the younger folks in town... especially the ones who are supernaturally gifted. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y authentic .... | .... regimented .... | .... magnanimous .... | .... persistent .... | .... observant H I S T O R Y Dev Sarkar was born and raised in the north side of Chicago, the oldest of four in a small brick townhouse near the river. His childhood was rather mundane. He preferred sports to academics, but managed just fine in public school. As he grew up, he lost an interest in religion and fantasy. He loved police procedurals, so much so that he managed to get into Loyola to pursue a Bachelors in Forensic Science. He had dreams of joining the FBI, but ended up settling for joining the police academy shortly after college. His family wasn't happy with his choice, but they had made the mistake of instilling in him a profound desire to support his community however he could. His adult years in Chicago were a blur. He met a young corporate lawyer at a bar, fell in love, and rose through the ranks in the CPD until he was a detective. They married young, rushing into things when Sarah got pregnant. They were happy then. She got busy, and so did he. Decades were spent with the two drifting apart. The kids had to watch them fight more and more as time passed. Dev's time on the force was rough. Even when numbers were on a downward trend, staring at corpses all day and having to track down the kids responsible day in and day out takes a lot out of anyone. He always had a hard time leaving work at work. When he was home, he'd still see the autopsies and witness statements. He'd put in time off the clock. He spent more time in the labs or interrogation rooms than he did playing dress up or catch with his children. Whenever it felt like Dev was making a difference, more cases would get dropped on his desk that were more depraved than the last. It was hard to say when the marriage had fully fallen apart. They both cheated, but they never really bothered to figure out who was unfaithful first. Five years ago, Sarah was done. The divorce was nasty, and Dev wanted to be anywhere she wasn't. He lived in motels for a few months while he put feelers out, eventually finding work in South Dakota of all places. His kids were nearly grown at that point, finishing out high school or off to college. He didn't have much of a reason to stick around. The deputy job in Pine Ridge didn't pay a lot. It was a small force, mostly dealing with tourists and petty land disputes. Dev didn't mind it. He still had savings from the divorce to keep him afloat as needed. Most of the excess money he did have was spent on cheap whiskey. He has enjoyed time spent disconnected from the city and technology, enjoying a more rural life far removed from his past. He has missed proper investigating like when he was a detective. Of course... things have started changing. A few months back, when old Sheriff Hawthorne died, Dev was the obvious choice to replace him. As acting sheriff until the next election, Dev has been caught in a storm of strange happenings. He doesn't know what exactly is going on in Pine Ridge, but it is his duty to find out and keep the peace. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #00aeef ........ faceclaim . | . Rahul Kohli ........ creator . | . webboysurf

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Vincent "Vinny" Bauer | The Prodigal Son

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Vincent Bauer...

.................................................... __________________________________________ V I N C E N T . B A U E R ________________________________________________________ 38 | male | pansexual __________________________________________ ..................▹ hair color | brown ..................▹ eye color | hazel ..................▹ height | 5' 9" ..................▹ build | stocky ..................▹ species | werewolf ..................▹ faction | pack ..................▹ role | boxer / pariah

. S T R E N G T H S scrappy - Even before his mutually-agreed upon exile, Vinny was a fighter. He would wrestle and box other Pack members for fun... or to settle a dispute. Since he's left, Vinny picked up boxing semi-professionally. He's been a beast in minor circuits, and has punched his way out of a number of nasty situations at the dive bars he always seems to call home on the road. tracker - His family were natural born hunters, quite literally. Vinny's nose was always a little keener than his brethren in the Pack, and he always put it to good use. He has a remarkable sense of direction, and would often wander the woods for days living naturally. intimidating - Not all men have the right words or supernatural ability to sway people to their side. What Vinny has gained through years of tough living are subtle ways to scare the living daylights out of people. Knowing how to knock someone around when words aren't enough doesn't hurt. W E A K N E S S E S chaotic - Vinny was never one for plans or schemes. He always seeks the easiest, most convenient, and most destructive path possible to get what he wants. When it becomes clear he can't get what he wants, he would rather burn everything to the ground so no one is happy. uninspiring - Vinny isn't a leader by any stretch of the imagination, despite believing that leadership is his birthright. He is rarely able to sway people to his side in a way that matters, and is not particularly good at making anyone believe that he cares about them (even if he does). disconnected - Vinny has been away from Pine Ridge for about a decade now, and the time away from that thing under the mountain has left him weaker than when he had left. His supernatural abilities have waned a bit, and he is beginning to feel his old strength and senses return as he arrives back in town to say hello to the family. __________________________________________________________________________________ P E R S O N A L I T Y aggressive .... | .... bullheaded .... | .... selfish .... | .... misguided .... | .... intense H I S T O R Y Vincent Bauer is a third generation werewolf, and one of the only members of the Pack to enter into exile. The Pack knew from a young age that he was dangerous. He played too roughly, had a hard time managing his emotions, and had trouble answering to authority. He was a rebel at heart, and that very nature was counter to everything the Pack stands for. While most believe him to be a selfish prick with no care for his kin, Vinny loved the pack more than anything. Maybe a little too much. As he grew older, Vinny would get territorial over his Pack. He didn't trust the witches, the vampires, or the humans who shared their land. He would pick fights with other teenagers, nearly escalating the situation in town to a dangerous level. The Boones often had to pull him back from his rageful fits, lest the whole town turn on the Pack altogether. After all, the witches helped keep the Vampires in check... and it was the duty of the Pack to protect the people of Pine Ridge. Vinny always thought that his Pack was better than the humans and witches. Harlan Boone was a natural choice for the role of Alpha in the pack when he came of age. For reasons only known to Vinny, he saw the passing of the torch through blood as sacrilege. His disdain for Harlan's inheritance festered until the day of the challenge came. It was the right of any in the pack to duel the Alpha for a chance to take the title. While Vinny was scrappy, wild, and dangerous... Harlan was another beast altogether. The fight was brutal, and Harlan stood the victor. Vinny's reputation was tarnished in the Pack. He was a pariah, an outcast amongst his own people and the rest of the town. He spent more time alone in the woods, keeping vigil over the forests the Pack called home. Eventually, Harlan came knocking. The conversation was simple. Warren was going to be the new Alpha, and Vinny would need to obey. It was an olive branch, a chance to come back into the fold. Vinny knew that night that he couldn't stay. Leaving the Pack was devastating. Pine Ridge had always been his home, and leaving behind his family was difficult. He stole an old Harley from the Boone's mechanic shop in the middle of the night and was gone without a word. He has spent the past decade or so travelling across the country. He's gotten into a lot of trouble, always managing to slip away before ending up in a jail cell. He picked up boxing, working some minor professional circuits around the country. He's always been too scared to return to Pine Ridge, afraid of being rejected from the only people in the world he actually loved again. But as time has passed, Vinny has felt his strength and senses dull. He's become weaker, started aging more rapidly than he was expecting, and started losing a lot more fights in the ring and at bars. He doesn't have a choice anymore. He needs to return home. He needs his strength, his powers, and his people. The Prodigal Son is returning home, but his arrival will be anything but welcome. __________________________________________________________________________________ hexcode . | . #D10019 ........ faceclaim . | . Tom Hardy ........ creator . | . webboysurf

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small town urban fantasy; vampires, witches, werewolves.

Descendants

^{#00aeef ....|..... outfit ............... #a8f9ff .....|..... prism ....|..... outfit ............... #995749 .....|..... brutus ....|..... outfit ............... descendant tower}

It was hard to wash off feelings.

Magni rested his hands against the tile walls of the shower, scalding water burning his skin as if to wash away the disgust. His memory already felt fuzzy as he tried to understand what he had missed. He wasn't flirting, and he hadn't actually done anything. But he still felt awful. The only thing he could think to do was storm back to the penthouse and wash off. He kept eyeing the bathroom door, dreading the thought of having to face his partner. After everything she had shared, the last thing he wanted was to affirm her worst fears. Lying and hiding this was out of the question, though. Even if he could conceal the events in the gym, the thought of being deceitful was abhorrent. He had only one option, and he needed to just get it over with.

The demigod dried himself off and picked out the first shirt and pants at his disposal from the selection Imogen had bought him. He entered the main living space, making note of her slumbering form. He wanted to snuggle up beside her until she woke up, but it didn't feel right. He eyed a chair near the window a few paces from the bed, and set himself down there. He looked out towards the approaching dawn, stewing over the morning's events while he let his lover rest.

Imogen didn’t rouse for a few more hours, the exhaustion of training and Cerebro left her out cold for the better part of twelve hours. By the time she began stirring sunlight poured through the full length windows and bathed the bedroom in a golden light. First her hand extended, running along the bed beneath the sheets in search of his heavy warmth that she had already grown accustomed to being curled around her throughout the night. She pushed off against the bed, forcing herself to sit up with a quiet groan, followed by a yawn as she rubbed her eyes. At first she assumed he had already wandered off somewhere in the tower to work out or catch up with Tobias, but as her legs slipped over the edge of the mattress and her bare feet found the cool tile, she noticed him silent and still in a nearby chair.

The sight was sobering and concerning, sapping the tiredness from her in a single breath and waking her in an instant. She couldn’t help but wonder if he felt something similar when he found her the other night. That thought alone made her pulse quicken as she slowly approached, the soft sound of her bare feet padding across the ground filling the silence of the room. Her hand softly rested on his shoulder first like a silent warning that she was there so she didn’t startle him. Any other day she would have slipped into his lap without a thought, but it felt wrong, insensitive. Instead she slowly stepped in front of him, slotting herself between his knees so she could gently take his face in her hands and tilt his head back so she could look into his eyes. There was a temptation to seek answers without asking, to remain in silence and discover what disturbed him through his thoughts… but she didn’t, she couldn’t.

She stood there for a long moment, studying him as her thumb lightly stroked his cheek. After brushing some of his hair back out of his face and tucking it behind his ear, she finally asked just barely above a whisper. "What’s wrong?"

For the first time since their recent reconnection, the sight of Imogen's bare form failed to elicit any reaction. His hungry gaze did not linger on her curves, nor was there a joyful smile as he saw her face. His eyes remained unfocused as she tried to get him to look at her. His pupils seemed to focus just past her shoulder, knots twisting in his chest as he scrambled for words to the question he had been dreading. He closed his eyes, lifting his hands to gently tug hers from his face. When he answered, his words lacked the power his voice possessed. They were soft, nearly inaudible.

"My mind is open."

He took a breath, and played through the moments in the gym slowly, as if they were a movie. He guided Imogen through every feeling, every thought. He bore his confusion, his momentary arousal, his shock, his frustration… everything he could muster as honestly as possible. Underlying it all was a heavy layer of shame coating every shadow and word with another wave of regret. All the while, he sat with his hands in his lap as if awaiting a judgement.

Imogen’s body tensed, concern twisting across her face as he refused to look at her and pulled her hands away. She swallowed as the rising fear crept up her chest, stealing her breath and constricting around her throat. The panic set in deep and quick. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was her, if she had done something. She had no proof otherwise. Every second that passed felt like an eternity. She was desperate to know but did not want to rush him either. Magni had been honest with her thus far, that wouldn’t change in the span of a single night… Would it?

Once he gave her permission, she didn’t hesitate, didn’t need to be told twice… Imogen’s eyes slowly closed as she let herself slip into his mind effortlessly. She wasn’t entirely sure what she expected. The selfish part of her assumed it was about her, that Magni no longer wanted anything to do with her. It was vain and narcissistic… and entirely wrong.

She stilled, breaths coming in shallow bursts as he replayed the memories like a play that she didn’t want to relive in his place. She didn’t rush through it. She didn’t parse through the emotions and images to get her answers in two seconds, but let him reveal what happened at his own pace… piece by piece. Her blood ran cold the second the first implication left Ronnie’s lips, smooth like silk, sweet as honey, but its true meaning was lost on him. Imogen shifted uncomfortably as it all settled into her like a fever chill. Her mind raced trying to connect the dots, trying to skip ahead and predict the conclusion before she was forced to watch. She wanted to shut off her mind and block it out, not feel every conflicting emotion Magni felt along with the truths she saw that he didn’t.

The disgust, the anger, all of it twisted in her stomach, making her nauseous and tasted like bile in her mouth. By the time the memory ran its course, a single tear ran down her cheek. She wanted to hold him and comfort him but knew more than most not to touch someone after something like that, how it could be traumatic and scarring. She wanted to tell him everything would be ok, and apologize a million times for the cruelty of other people… but she couldn’t find the words or make a single coherent thought out of the maelstrom that stirred in her mind. Louder than all of her other screaming emotions combined was the heavy, deafening pain and frustration of not being able to comfort her lover when he looked so incredibly defeated.

They stole his light. Magni’s joyful brilliance was beaten into shame… and that broke her.

Imogen’s hands were trembling as she hesitantly held his face a second time. Her touch wasn’t affectionate and sure, but feather light and fearful of triggering something in him that he might not understand yet. She leaned forward slowly, placing a tender, lingering kiss to his forehead as her own gentle reassurance when words eluded her. She remained there for a long moment while her breaths came heavy and erratic through her nose. "I will be back," she whispered against his skin like a confirmation that she was still his, and a promise that she was going to handle it.

She said nothing else. She couldn’t form a sentence if she wanted to. Her hands slowly fell from his face as she stood upright, then made her way toward her closet with a furious determination. Imogen pulled on whatever clothes she found first, unbothered with her nappy bed head or how she looked, which was only further testament to the warring emotions that clouded her mind. She was still fastening her pants as she crossed the living room toward the elevator. Her hand trembled so violently from the anger and adrenalin that she missed the button to call the lift three separate times before giving up and heading out into the stairwell.

Magni rose to his feet when Imogen stormed towards her closet. He only knew her from the past few days, but he could tell what was to come. His movements were slow as he crossed towards the elevators, with his partner rushing past him. By the time she had given up on the elevator, he was at the doorway to the stairs. As she slammed the door open, Magni's movement was swift and firm. He grabbed her bicep, holding her just enough to stop her in her tracks. "They didn't know… we didn't… My reputation may have caused this." The words were jumbled and confused, clawing for accountability.

Imogen froze because his presence and touch requested it, but there was nothing he could say that would deter her. She turned to face him, bare feet pivoting against the cold concrete, chest heaving from the breaths she couldn’t calm. Her expression saddened as he attempted to defend them or blame himself. "No," she snapped. She winced the second she heard her venom echoing off the walls around them. She wasn’t mad at him. He didn’t deserve her anger. She inhaled deeply in an attempt to calm herself before reaching up to cup his cheek in her palm. "He knew." Her words were gentle, but resolute in her conviction. "They both knew. I heard it in their words. Saw it in their faces…"

She closed her eyes tight, turning her head away slightly as the disgust and anger boiled in her chest. Her hold on him tightened, just slightly, like a silent beg for him to trust her… For him not to make excuses for assholes who didn’t deserve his pity. Tears burned her eyes as she forced them open and met his gaze. "You are a good, compassionate, and trusting man, Magni." Every word came out clear, purposeful, and unwavering like they were being etched in stone. "It’s one of the many things I adore about you… But he took advantage of that trust… Played with it and you like you were some toy for his own sexual gratification." Imogen shook her head as a tear escaped, leaving a glistening trail down her cheek. "That’s not ok." Her voice cracked.

"It doesn’t matter if you’re a saint or a whore, they had no right." She could feel the anger rising, hear the way it made her words turn to acid. "He was supposed to be your friend..." Imogen sucked in a sharp breath, turning from him while gently tugging her arm free from his grasp. She took out her frustration on her eyes as she aggressively wiped away her angry tears until her face turned red. "Fuck!" she shouted before throwing her fist into the wall. Just as her knuckles hit the concrete her body became diamond and sent a crack splintering in several directions. "I’m sorry, Magni," she apologized, her words were quiet and trembling. "I won’t stand for someone treating you like that… Not while you’re with me."

With that, Imogen started down the stairs with haste, a sharp rhythmic tink tink following her with every step of her bare diamond feet against the cement. Magni lingered for a moment, his eyes focused on the damaged wall. He wasn't entirely convinced of her understanding of the scenario, but he was not going to argue with her further. She was on the warpath, and the least he could do was be there to prevent her from killing an ally. So, he followed after her.

It wasn’t the quickest, descending seventeen floors, but Imogen hardly noticed. Her mind was still racing, trying to piece together what she was going to say as visions of Magni’s memories played on repeat. She nearly missed Luke’s floor, going halfway down the following flight before she caught herself, turned around and walked back. It wasn’t until that moment that she noticed Magni had been following her. She stopped for a second to look up at him. There was a part of her that wanted to take him back to her room, if only to save him from facing Luke or seeing her like that, but the confused shame that still clung to his features erased the thought before it could take root. She brushed past him, letting her hand linger on him affectionately until he was out of reach.

She approached the door and had intended to knock normally, albeit with loud incessant bangs. But having forgotten she was still in her diamond form, Imogen’s first knock broke the door from its hinges and sent it flying across the living room until it collided with the opposite wall. There was too much building in her chest for her to pay it any mind as she stepped through the threshold into the familiar apartment that felt like a fever dream and deja vu collided into one. Then, forgetting any tact she might have once possessed, she shouted like a woman seeking blood. "Lucian Buchanan Rogers!"

The apartment had been too quiet since he returned. Luke had taken a shower first, longer than usual, standing beneath the spray long after the water had turned lukewarm, letting it beat against the back of his neck as though it might rinse something deeper than sweat from his skin. The gym clung to him in fragments: Ronnie’s laughter, Magni’s open trust, the moment when confusion had crept across the god’s face like a crack through glass. When he finally stepped out, the silence waiting for him in the penthouse felt heavier than before. So he stripped the bed next, tossing the sheets into the wash with the detached efficiency of someone trying very hard not to think.

But thinking came anyway.

By the time he poured the whiskey, his hands were steadier than they had been during his shower. The glass caught the dim light as he leaned against the kitchen island, staring through the penthouse toward nothing in particular. The first swallow burned in a clean, punishing line down his throat, and for a moment, small and traitorous, Luke considered something he had never allowed himself before. The idea of walking upstairs. Of finding the one person who might still look him in the eye without seeing the monster beneath the charm… and telling her everything.

The glass struck the counter with a hard thunk.

And then the door exploded.

Wood splintered across the marble floor as the hinges tore free, the ruined slab of it skidding across the room until it slammed into the far wall. Luke didn’t move immediately. He simply watched it happen, watched the quiet order of his floor collapse in a single violent breath. Then he turned slowly from the counter toward the diamond figure framed in the wreckage, the name she’d shouted still echoing faintly through the room.

His hands rose a little, not surrender, not quite, but enough to show he wasn’t reaching for anything. His jaw tightened, a frown pulling at the corner of his mouth before he spoke. "Look," he said, voice low and strained, tension coiled tight beneath the surface. "I already know, okay?" The words hung there, brittle in the space between them.

Imogen walked deeper into the penthouse with a slow methodical anger that permeated off her as the space between them diminished with each step. The apartment was silent aside from the settling wreckage of her entrance and the acute click of her diamond feet upon tile. She held up a single prismatic finger, stopping him before he spoke further as she shook her head. "No. No." Her voice tore through the tense vacuum as she came to stop on the opposite side of his kitchen counter. "Your guilt does not absolve you of what you did." The sharp edge of her carbon skin disappeared beneath its natural soft ivory as her hands rested upon the counter, choosing to shift out of her diamond form for no other reason than to save his room from further destruction… for the time being.

Her gaze was piercing and unwavering as it drilled through the strain behind his eyes into his mind. She did not ask for permission nor apologize as her invisible tendrils ensnared through his thoughts. Imogen wasn’t being kind or playing fair. She had no patience for whatever bullshit he’d spew to twist the narrative. She’d know the truth… one way or another.

Her fingers ran along the edge of the marble counter like she was pressing flat fabric, busying her hands as she tried to gather her thoughts and keep her emotions on a short leash. "If you already know," she started, her words were quiet and accusatory like a blade pressed to the ribs, where one wrong move could show the true edge to her resolve. "Then you knew what you did was fucked up, and did it anyway." Her hands trembled against the counter as the adrenalin and anger still coursed through her like venom.

"You took advantage of him…" Imogen’s voice cracked, revealing a fault in her strength as she hung her head and drew in an unsteady breath. She cleared her throat, blinking past the angry tears that burned her eyes like acid as she forced herself to meet his gaze once again. "You took advantage of his kindness, of his trust, and for what?" She practically spat the words at him as if they disgusted her for existing on her tongue in the first place. "You treated Magni like a pawn in your sick game, preying on his naivety… For what!?" she shouted, slamming her hands down so hard against the cool marble that she felt the sting of pain tingle along her palms and down her fingers.

Luke’s jaw tightened as her words struck him one after another, each accusation landing with the sharp precision of a blade. He didn’t interrupt her. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to, her anger filled the room like a storm front, heavy and electric, leaving no space for breath. Part of him, some smaller and inconvenient fragment buried beneath years of careful cruelty, did feel something like regret twisting under his ribs. But the larger part of him, the colder part that understood survival, that understood the mission, was already moving, already calculating, already searching for a way through the mess she’d just dropped at his feet.

And then the words were leaving his mouth before he had the faintest idea why.

"Because I love him," he said.

For half a second Luke actually forgot how to breathe. Oh Jesus Christ on a cracker, what the fuck was he doing. The thought crashed through his skull as he stared at her, realizing too late that the lie had already taken shape, already begun weaving itself into something almost believable. His hand dragged down his face as if the confession itself burned.

"I always have," he forced out, shaking his head like the admission was physically painful to carry. "Since the Academy… all these years apart."

He turned away from her slightly, shoulders tense as if the memory alone weighed more than he could hold. The penthouse suddenly felt too small, the air too tight in his lungs as he leaned back against the counter.

"It’s always been him," he muttered hoarsely. "For a long time I was just… too scared." His laugh was quiet and bitter as he rubbed the back of his neck. He was going to kill himself. "Even when I withdrew from the Academy, I looked for Magni in every thunderstorm."

The absurdity of the words almost made him dizzy. He could practically hear his father laughing somewhere in the back of his mind. Luke let out a breath that shook slightly before he looked back at her.

"I fucked up, okay," he said, voice tight. "I get it. I just—I don’t know, Imogen." His gaze flickered down for a moment before returning to her, something strained behind his eyes. "How could he ever look at me… when he has you?"

A short, broken laugh slipped from him. No, seriously. The top of the building would be the perfect place for him to pitch himself from. Would the fall kill him? Only one way to find out.

"I was desperate," he finished quietly. "It was fucking stupid. I get it. So go ahead, hit me, scream at me. I deserve it all, because I–I hurt him." His voice broke on the word hurt and Luke squeezed his eyes shut.

Imogen froze, like his words alone were enough to make her question if she had ever woken in the first place, because a dream could be the only logical explanation for what was happening. Her palms pressed into the edge of the counter, but her fingers lifted, curling and tense like she didn’t know what to do. The anger and disgust that had been burning white hot inside her went ice cold in a single beat, nearly sending a shiver of confused frustration as a different type of fury settled somewhere deep behind her ribs.

While Luke spoke, weaving and knotting his web tighter, she disassociated. Her psionic tendrils dove into his mind, sifting through every thought and emotion in search of the truth. Lies and truths were always presented differently. A lie was a story, a carefully curated tale composed of necessary fables interwoven with fact that gave just enough weight to what was being shared for it to stick. Truth was a painting, colored with emotions and memories, like a montage that gave every word meaning and credence. If this love was true she should have felt it, seen it through snapshots of their time at the academy. There should have been flashes of lingering glances, time spent together, or the small imperceivable things about Magni that sunk its claws into him.

But there wasn’t… It was just words and actions… scripted.

All expression slowly slipped away from her face as the realization sunk in like an anchor dragging across the pit of her stomach until it caught. Recognition flashed behind her eyes when he met her gaze. Checkmate. She was backed into a corner by a lie so unbelievably ridiculous that there was nothing she could do other than… accept it. What he did was wrong. She knew it, felt it in her gut, but the truth of that burden now lived silently between herself and a man she once thought she knew. She wanted to hit him, scream and shout until she was blue in the face, but she couldn’t. Every thought and action that came to mind would only back fire and make her look insensitive, possessive, jealous, or unhinged. Imogen couldn’t understand what she or Magni did to warrant it, but Luke outplayed them.

She drew in a long measured breath through her flared nostrils. Every muscle in her body was tense as she thought out her words carefully, like one misstep could set off a bomb. "It is still sexual assault, even if you love him." Her words were strained like it took all the control she had not to reach across the island and slam his face into the counter. "I should break every fucking bone in your body for that alone."

The elevator dinged. Brushed steel doors slid open and Ronnie stepped out, shoes crunching on the debris from the broken door. She whistled, looking around before her gaze settled on Luke. "What did I miss?"

Imogen’s body shifted at the sight of Ronnie. Diamond fingers curled into the lip of the counter until there was a loud snap and two large chucks of marble broke free into her palms sending splintered cracks along its surface. She threw the pieces across the penthouse hearing one lodge itself into drywall and another shattered something out of sight. "If it’s love, then why the fuck was she part of it?" Her eyes squinted, searching Luke for any shred of the man she once knew… But there was nothing. The man before her was a stranger. "I don’t know who you are anymore. Your father would be so disappointed in you."

Luke didn’t move while she spoke. His jaw flexed, teeth grinding together hard enough that a faint ache pulsed up through his temples. The anger in her voice scraped against something raw inside him, but he held his ground behind the counter, hands braced against the marble like he needed the solid surface to keep himself from doing something reckless. He could feel her inside his mind, feel the probing pressure of her psionic search the way one might feel fingers pressing into a bruise. It made the back of his neck prickle, but he forced his expression into something controlled, something almost weary.

When Ronnie appeared in the elevator, Luke didn’t even glance at her right away. The whistle, the crunch of debris beneath her shoes, the casual curiosity in her voice, all of it felt distant, like noise bleeding in from another room. His attention stayed locked on Imogen as the marble snapped in her hands and scattered across the penthouse. The accusation that followed struck harder than the debris ever could.

And then she mentioned his father.

For a moment, something ugly flashed across Luke’s face before he could stop it. His jaw tightened again as she turned away, as if the act of leaving severed whatever fragile thread had been holding the room together. The regret that had flickered in him earlier stirred once more, small and treacherous, but this time he grabbed it and shoved it deep down where it couldn’t reach the surface. It didn’t matter what she thought she knew about him. It didn’t matter what she saw when she looked at him now.

"You’re right about that part," he said quietly. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried through the ruined doorway and fractured room with unsettling clarity. He finally pushed away from the counter, straightening slowly as he looked at the wreckage scattered across his penthouse floor. "You don’t know who I am anymore."

And the truth was, he barely recognized that person himself. There had been a time, long ago, before the academy fractured and before his father’s shadow swallowed everything, when Luke had believed something painfully naive. That he could be better. That he could carve out a different future for himself than the one waiting for him. The memory of that boy felt distant now, like recalling someone else’s life. The hope had been beaten out of him long before today.

Imogen was wrong about one thing, though. His father wouldn’t be disappointed. If anything, the man would probably be proud of how far Luke was willing to go to see their cause through. Proud that his son had learned how to manipulate, how to twist trust until it snapped in his hands like the marble she’d just broken. The thought crawled through Luke’s chest like something rotten. It disgusted him more than anything else had today.

She had nothing else to say… nothing else she could say. Imogen pushed off the counter with a crunch as more pieces of marble crumbled and fell to the floor. Her shoulder bumped into Ronnie’s as she passed, hitting it hard enough to make the woman wince as her shoulder dislocated. She reached the elevator as it was closing and quickly slipped her hand into the small space between the doors. Once they opened back up she stepped inside, dropping her diamond form before pressing a button to avoid breaking anything else. She couldn’t stay. She couldn’t listen to any more of Luke’s lies or the way Magni would be kind and understanding. She would only draw blood trying to bite her tongue through it. Her attention fell to her bare toes that just barely stuck out from beneath the bottom of her pants, unable to force herself to meet anyone’s gaze as the doors closed and the elevator descended.

Magni remained frozen in the stairwell's doorway, his unfocused gaze seeming to settle somewhere in the back of the penthouse as the scene transpired. So many things swirled through his mind at the confession. He had always seen Luke as a comrade, but he did not believe there was anything romantic. They were friends, comrades, sparring partners, and teammates. They had not been particularly physically affectionate, in the way he had with someone like Blake Rasputin. Even then, it became very clear how incompatible they were on a level that could never be mended. With Luke… there was no history. There was never a particularly strong bond.

So… where did these feelings come from? His gaze, his actions, and even his words the day before had made no indication that there was anything beyond comradery. Even hours before, it seemed that Ronnie had initiated everything while Luke went along with it. It never felt like love, like it had with Imogen the night she woke him. But… the thought that Luke was outright lying never crossed his mind. It didn't feel like the truth, so it might have been confusion. As Magni took a breath to collect himself, he looked in Luke's direction.

"I… am sorry, Lucian." The words were soft and somber. He paused, letting the apology sink in as he searched for a proper explanation. "I… have viewed thee as a brother in arms. Thou have proven thyself a worthy ally… but…" Magni closed his hands into fists, the tension against his palms grounding himself in the moment enough to continue. "I do not feel the same for thee. My affections are Imogen's, and hers mine." The admission was simple, apologetic, and firm. He bowed his head, speaking the last words quietly. "I hope that we may still fight as allies, and that we may share drinks in Valhalla one day."

Magni’s words hung in the air like a quiet verdict, and for a moment Luke simply stood there with the weight of them pressing against his chest. His expression shifted almost imperceptibly— lips tightening, eyes narrowing just enough to suggest the sting of rejection. But the truth was far less romantic and far more mortifying. Somewhere in the middle of this disaster he had opened his mouth and turned a bad situation into something exponentially worse, and now he was trapped inside a lie so elaborate he could practically hear it creaking under its own weight.

Honestly, it might have been easier if Imogen had just hit him.

At least then the pain would have been clean and simple, diamond, bone, impact, consequence. The thought of her diamond fist crashing into his jaw made his teeth ache just imagining it, though. He had seen what her sort of power did to walls, to machines, to things that were supposed to withstand far worse than a human skull. No, on second thought, perhaps this humiliation was the lesser evil. He didn't ever want to be on the business side of her diamond fist.

Luke let out a slow breath and forced his shoulders to ease, dragging the mask back into place. When he finally looked up at Magni, there was a strained softness in his expression that hadn’t been there before, the kind that suggested someone bracing themselves for disappointment they’d already anticipated.

"It’s fine, Magni," he said after a beat, voice quieter now. "I understand."

The smile that followed was thin but sincere enough to pass. He rubbed the back of his neck like the whole moment had left him awkwardly exposed. "Of course we’ll always be allies," he continued. "I… I’m sorry."

Luke let the words linger, pouring just enough weight into them to make the apology feel genuine. Every ounce of the performer in him slipped neatly into place, shaping the lie with careful precision. If Magni believed anything from this mess, it needed to be that remorse. For now, that belief was worth more than any truth Luke could offer.

Magni offered a small nod, standing tall again as he took in Luke’s words. It still didn’t feel right, in a way he couldn’t quite place. The reassurance was enough for him, and it at least offered a good enough excuse to tend to his partner. The god sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand. "That is… good." He wasn’t sure what else he could say in response. He lingered for a moment longer before just bowing his head again. "I will go now." He lumbered his way back up the stairs, making his way for Imogen’s penthouse at his own pace.

^{interactions ....|.... ronnie ............... mentions ....|.... tobias ............... collabs ....|.... @Sleepy Tani & @Mjolnir}

Reign of the Usurper

^{The Court of King Rowan Storvane}

What, precisely, made Rowan the king he was? Perhaps it was his military prowess, or his ability to rule with a firm hand? Was it just his gravitas? To Duke Zaid Ganasen, the answer was simple: he was impossible to hate openly.

The King’s speech was rousing, and Duke Zaid was quick to bring his hands together in applause as his fellow lords and ladies were moved by such a personable decree. The brief, blank glance he shared with his wife, Nadira, made it clear that the words had not quite reached his heart. The upstart king of the barren northern rocks of Aethoria sent hundreds of men to their deaths with his rousing speeches, his pleas for vengeance for his poor siblings enough to stir the hearts of many peasants who thought this man could change their lot in life. They fled to the skirt of their future king because he seemed like one of them. Without friends from the other holds and a Phorian bride, he would be another bit of bloody pulp from the boots of Leoric’s unyielding lackeys. They propped him up, because he had started a fire in the people that needed to burn. Leoric was bad for business, and now that the dust had settled and it had been a great few decades, the Usurper still did not quite fit his crown.

It would have been improper to deny a King’s invitation, even as Zaid could see the writing on the wall. His heir was a letch, more prone to seducing aristocrats and merchant children than a princess. His daughter had more promise, if only because Rowan shared in the struggle of raising a fitting successor and would certainly need a competent bride if Aethoria had any hope… assuming responsibilities would not fall to the Phorian crone when Rowan eventually abdicates his title.

Zaid glanced behind to acknowledge his legitimates, who dutifully followed their father’s lead. There was a stillness behind them in the retinue of his family’s attendants that caught the Duke’s eye. Blending into the shadows of the Great Hall, with a piercing gaze settled on his monarch, Khalil seemed unmoved by the speech. He stirred only as he noticed his father’s impartial stare, slowly moving his hands to offer a few slow claps before the crowd’s fawning died. When Zaid looked away, there was a pain in his chest. It was hard to place whether the sorrow stemmed from what he had sacrificed to stand here, or that there was a deep irony that his first-born seemed to share his outlook.

As the other Lords began to make their formal introductions, Zaid turned to his wife. The Duchess did not meet his gaze, focusing on the royals with a smile that did not meet her eyes. He held out his arm, and she slowly hooked her hands into the crook of his elbow. When a few other houses made their introduction, Zaid took a step forward to make his approach clear. His steps were deliberate and firm, but his pace was agonizingly slow. A wide smile filled his cheeks as he approached, and Nadira’s grasp on her husband tightened. She knew the smile well. When they stood before the dais, she let go of Zaid so he could step forward. He tucked his arm in front of his chest and bowed deeply in supplication.

”Your majesty, I shall attempt to muster what youthful vigor I can to announce my family in Master Farraday’s stead,” Duke Zaid jested, his mirthful tone masking the barb like a rose’s bud hid its thorn. He lifted his head while remaining bowed, meeting his sovereign’s eyes with his own. ”Your servants of the Lost Coast are pleased as ever to accept your gracious hospitality.”

Somewhere off in the wings of the hall, hidden among the shadows, Lord Farraday sidled up to his great nephew adorned in dark plate, attentive and alert at his post on the far edge of the dais where doors led to servants corridors in the corners no one ever looked. A sound stirred in his chest, something between a bemused laugh and a scoff that was too quiet to carry to the royals or the Lords at the bottom of the steps. He leaned to the side, dipping his head next to Declan’s. "Do I look like a fucking herald?" he huffed, face remaining blank aside from the small glint of a smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

The Captain’s lips tightened deceptively as he tried to remain composed and muffle his laugh to not draw attention. He cleared his throat, dropping his head slightly to mask his expression while rolling his shoulders and neck. "Keeper of Scrolls… Herald of the King." He shrugged his shoulders, his plate armor rattling quietly from the slight movement. "Fancy titles."

Dunstan laughed, quickly muffling it behind his hand and a dramatic clearing of his throat. "That impudence will get you in trouble," he warned with a wag of his finger but lacked any and all seriousness to back it up.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Declan mused, straightening himself but unable to hide the guilty smirk that nested beneath his dark beard.

Meanwhile, the King descended the dais like he had with all of the other Lords, arms extended at his sides in warm welcome. "Ah, I’ve never been one for tradition. There is no reason to make the old man hoarse for the sake of ceremony," he matched the jest with one of his own, keeping the conversation light and inviting as always. There was a small unspoken part of Rowan that felt protective of Lord Farraday, family in all but blood. And with that came the subtle necessity to defend the man through the charade of his own lighthearted tease. "I thought more intimate introductions would be a nice change of pace, given the circumstances."

Rowan’s feet settled on the stone floor opposite Lord Zaid, offering his hand in a welcome shake accompanied with his smile that was nothing but beaming from the prospect of renewed friendships and a season of merriment. "It is a pleasure to have you and your lovely family grace my home. I hope your journey was met with not but calm seas and strong winds."

Zaid was quick to meet Rowan’s hand with both of his, grasping the King’s hands tightly in them both and giving a firm shake. The smile never faltered, a pleasant mask that caused the wrinkles near his eyes to crinkle. His eyes briefly glinted towards Lord Farraday, offering a slight nod of jovial apology for the barb to keep the peace. When he spoke, his attention had turned to his liege. ”No waves nor winds would unsettle House Ganasen, Your Grace. I oft feel unsettled by how still the land feels at our estate when I have been away too long.”

Imran’s cheeks paled at his father’s jest, the recollection of earlier events of the day unsettling his restless stomach slightly. He still stood stiff and proud behind his father, his gaze briefly passing over the royal family with an alluring smile. His hands remained firmly held behind his back, waiting patiently to be addressed whilst the two men shared pleasantries. His eyes did linger a little longer on Dorian, rumors of the prince’s dalliances having reached the hallowed brothels of even the Lost Coast. When there were less prying ears, he would have to pry from the royal exactly which lecherous establishments to taste while he was there.

Zhara, meanwhile, held a tight polite smile as her eyes seemed drawn upwards to the buttresses and slender windows of the Great Hall. Her hands unconsciously smoothed down the folds of her dress, as if she were trying to smooth the fabric down like her slicked back hair. Her palms still felt raw from the amount of scrubbing she had done at her uncle’s estate to get her hands clean from years of hard work.

"I understand," the King replied with a sympathetic nod of his head and his radiant smile that never faltered. "I often find myself reminiscing on my time among stone and snow, especially in this sweltering heat. But alas the Vale is my home now for good or ill."

With one last pat to the Lord’s hand, Rowan turned sideways to address the rest of House Ganasen with a warm laugh. "Forgive us old men and our ramblings. Allow me to introduce you to my family." His hand gestured up to the dais where his wife stood, her gaze cold and unwavering as she seemed intent to look anywhere but her husband. "My wife, Valenya."

The Queen took a single step forward and curtsied, as was expected of her, as her husband—the King—would demand of her. Nothing more, nothing less. Perhaps it was petty, she did not care. She did not take kindly to him snapping at her before their company nor the way he challenged her parenting when he only deemed to step up as a father when he could be the hero. It seemed that what words left her lips that day would not sit right with him. And while Valenya was one of the few people who had no restraint when it came to openly contesting her husband, it could wait. For once he seemed far more concerned with appearances now that it did not only reflect upon him, but on their children’s livelihoods. She could roll her eyes at the irony if they were not being watched like a spectacle.

If the King noticed or was bothered by his wife’s indifference, he did not show it, keeping his face bright and warm smile ever present. "My son and heir, Dorian."

Having remained steadfast at his sister’s side since their mother decided to make a scene, Dorian looked over at Rhea, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before slipping him arm free from her grasp and stepping forward. With one hand resting against his abdomen and the other tucked behind his back, he dipped into a bow. The single loose brown curl brushed his cheek as he stood back upright with his usual charming and confident smile. His gaze scanned the noble family, enticed by their rich caramel skin and ebony hair that made them dark contrasts to the overly pallid offerings that loitered around the Great Hall. His attention lingered on the son, noting a telling glint behind his eyes that piqued his curiosity. A single brow rose quizzically before he returned to his place beside his father’s throne.

"And, of course, my wonderful daughters, Maeve and Rhea."

Both of the Princesses stepped forward in silent unison. While Maeve remained a pristine example of what a lady of her standing should be, Rhea followed through the motions as was expected, but there was a heavy somberness that dimmed the light that often sparked defiantly behind her eyes. She was not looking forward to the introductions or this gathering like her sister was, but whatever silver lining Declan had helped fasten in place was quickly washed away by her mother. At that point she wanted nothing more than to be off that dais and lost somewhere beneath the sea of the other nobles, if only to disappear out from under her mother’s piercing gaze. But she still curtsied and smiled, even if the warmth did not reach her eyes, then returned to stand beside Dorian.

Imran and Zhara did the customary bows and curtseys respectively as the Storvane's were introduced. Zaid stepped to the side with his wife, letting the spectacle continue on until all had been properly introduced. The Duke took a moment to smooth out the creases of his doublet before repositioning himself. He stood to the side, perpendicular to the dias, and motioned to the Duchess. ”May I present my wife, the Duchess Nadira,” he announced, his voice oozing with bravado and pride. The duchess, for her part, presented a small smile and stepped forward. She curtsied properly before the Storvane's, head bowed in the proper sign of supplication. She did not linger long, ending the motion and stepping back again to her husband's side.

”My successor, Imran.”

Imran, for his part, stepped forward boldly. He pressed his right fist against his heart, extending the left behind his back. He looked down the line of Royals, his discerning gaze trying to parse the fleeting meanings behind their expressions. Dorian had met his interest, Maeve was attempting to act as a flawless statue of her station, and Rhea was… disengaged. This nearly elicited as much interest as the rumors of the crown prince, but fell short of his baser desires. He bowed deeply before the Storvane's with a pleased smirk. ”I do hope that we shall become better acquainted, Your Royal Highnesses.” He stood up straight again, and then stepped back beside his sister.

”And the pride of the Lost Coast, my daughter Zhara.”

Zhara shot a glance at her father, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. It was always hard to discern what her father's thoughts were, but the aggrandizing of her status seemed obvious even for him. She presented herself respectfully, not daring to make eye contact with any of the royals directly as she curtsied. She was only there out of obligation, and had little interest in the games their fathers were playing. Her brother had a better chance of winning the hand of one of the king's children than she ever did. She spoke softly, as her mother had instructed on the ride over. ”You honor us with the invitation, Your Majesty.”

The King smiled vibrant and welcoming as his gaze followed each introduction with a patient attentiveness and a gentle nod of acknowledgement. "You have a lovely family," he replied while gently clapping his hands together. "It has been many years since I got to travel beyond the Valley of the Kings. I hope some of you might humor an old man with some of your tales during your stay." His laugh was quiet but radiant, surrounding them in the warmth he brandished with honor unlike the King before him. "I once again thank you all for making the long and arduous journey to the capital. I look forward to the friendships we shall create over the following months." His smile softened with a small nod.

Rowan gave the Lord a light pat to the shoulder in a final greeting before making his way back up to the dais and returning to his place beside his family. Zaid offered one final bow in polite deference, before he beckoned his family back to their spot with a wave of his hand.

As the Ganasen’s settled back into the respective corner, Zhara looked back to notice Khalil had settled himself among the sparse attendants after their initial arrivals. Missing from their number was the Corsair, Christopher Harlow. Zhara shot a confused look at Khalil, who simply shook his head and mouthed two words. “Dock business.” Zhara sighed, offering the bastard a curt nod. She looked to her brother beside her, pleased to have a little bit of support at the very least.

Khalil, for his part, bore a pleasant and servile mask as he watched the proceedings with disdain. After all the Ganasens had done for Aethoria, they were relegated to little more than dinner guests for an aging king’s desperate clasp for legacy. While he rotted on a throne far too big for such a small man, the Ganasen’s worked overtime to provide his highness with the satin sheets and fine wines the royal family seemed all too happy to indulge in. They called him a King of the People, when he never suffered as they had. As Khalil stood politely with the servants of his father, denied his birthright indirectly by his sovereign’s own petty gripes, he simply smiled.

He had waited long enough. It was time to finally take back what was rightfully his.

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Scion: The Prophecy of Anani

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Small waves lap up against leather boots, and soaked clothes hang on the man like weights. His collar feels more constricting than usual, gripping his throat like a noose. The water is frigid, chilling into his very bones. The river is murky, and as the man takes his first step into it, it feels more resistant to his advance. He doesn't feel wet. He sees, on the other side of the river, a boat slightly run aground the shallow shore. He sees men in armor approaching the boat, rifles in hand. He takes another step, and he feels something grabbing his leg. The water is too opaque to see anything. The man resists the pull, and tries to take another step. Another hand grips his other leg, and begins to pull him down. More grasping fingers clutch his wrists, his arms, his coat. The man watches in horror as the armored men board the boat. He sees others behind him on the shore, all faceless and wearing the standard Templar armor. Just before he is pulled beneath the waves, he hears a gunshot.

Edmund awoke with a start, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim streams of light that filtered in through the dark curtains of his room. His left hand had quickly found the handle of his revolver on his nightstand, instinct taking hold as his elevated heart rate struggled to stabilize. After a few labored breaths, he set the firearm back down and swung himself into a sitting position at the edge of the bed.

He looked briefly at the guitar resting in its stand only a few feet away, gently reaching out towards it. He lifted it into his lap, testing the strings before plucking out a few slow chords. He hummed a tune under his breath as he strummed quietly in his chamber. ‘Rest heals the body, music heals the soul,’ some noted review of an operetta of Augustus Morello mused several centuries ago. The simple notes Edmund strummed were far from ordained art, but they helped steady his spirit nonetheless. When he was finished, he set the instrument back in its place.

The morning was otherwise regimented. A brief jog where Edmund could monitor the grounds, a morning check in with Maya’s security detail, and another day spent in his ward’s shadow with a perpetual stoney expression he wore as part of his uniform. For all her faults, the Scion of Water had a knack for business and dealings. He remained nearby as she answered emails and went about shilling lavish products. He almost felt relieved by the time he climbed after her into the limousine.

The relaxation was short-lived. Camera flashes, loud shouts and cheers… public spectacles always put the Templar on edge. He had already opted to channel the armor with its helmet on, opting to avoid Maya’s teasing over some misconstrued expression he always flashed when dealing with the paparazzi. He stood within an arm’s length of Maya as she walked the runway, hands delicately grasped behind his back. It was important to avoid appearing too aggressive at functions like these, lest he receive another lecture from Elijah. He nodded thoughtfully at Maya’s prepared answer. If it came from a more devout scion, Edmund might have almost believed her. When she slowed down next to him, he already had a sneaking suspicion of what it was she wanted.

“Hang back and get a good shot of me going through the doors,” she whispered, tapping his forearm. “It’ll be perfect to close off my Year in Review.”

Edmund took Maya’s phone, letting out a soft breath and tapping the crystal at the core of the chestplate. The helmet retracted, revealing carefully combed hair and less stubble than usual. He unlocked the phone, assuming the position as he knelt down to get a proper angle. He adjusted the camera settings, accounting for the lighting and color balance, until he was satisfied with the preview. He snapped a few pictures, changing the angle and position of the phone ever so slightly to provide options. Years of martial training culminated in a career as Maya’s amateur photographer. The goddess loved to test his patience.

He rose back to his feet and quickly followed his Scion into the Cathedral, offering her phone back as the helmet was summoned to hide a small smile.

Star Wars: Shadows of the New Republic

"I don’t understand."

A young Nautolan sat cross-legged among a group of other children, dressed in tightly wound robes. Sitting on a round stool before them all in a similar position, Jedi Master Ro Nuul lifted a hand to stroke the folds of his chin in thought. "What is it you do not understand, young one."

Kaz paused, cognizant of the stares of the other aspirants. His big black eyes glanced back to the master, who simply nodded in encouragement. Kaz brought his hands together in his lap, gripping them together tightly to ground himself. "I don’t understand how we control the Force if it’s alive."

Ro Nuul nodded thoughtfully, his obscured eyes fixed to a point on the ground in front of him. When he answered, his words dripped slowly like honey from the comb. "We do not control it. We guide it." He paused, a low hum emanating from his chest as he considered his words. "It is an imperfect analogy… but imagine the Force as a river. We bathe in it, drink from it, can even live in it. But it moves on its own, by its own rules." He looked up again, meeting the Nautolan’s gaze to ensure he was following. "We can guide the river’s course, by building a dam or creating a new path for it to follow. But we never truly control it. It has its own will."

The young aspirants nodded and chirped their agreements, while young Kaz’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. He hesitated a moment, trying desperately to grasp a question that was lingering on the tip of his tongue. "If… if it has its own will, then could it guide us?"

Silence hung in the room as the other aspirants seemed surprised by the question. Master Ro Nuul’s features smoothed as he smiled and nodded along, a low chuckle echoing in the hall. "Oh… it most certainly does. The Force has a tendency to guide lives in the direction in which they are needed."

---

---

A pained, wet cough woke Kaz from his unconscious state. Taking in a breath stung his chest, and stirred him to reach for the source of the discomfort. He found a shard of metal lodged centimeters from his vital organs, lodged closer to his shoulder than his lungs. Touching the debris sent a fresh bolt of searing pain through his system, shaking off any drowsiness he felt. He wasn’t sure how long he had been unconscious, and it took a moment for him to remember why he was bleeding out in a pilot’s seat.

When the Jedi turned his gaze to his left, he saw the bifurcated chassis of his master’s pilot droid. There was some light seeping in through the right half of the shattered viewscreen, and the tilt of gravity made it clear the ship was somewhat lopsided when it crash landed. Something tickled at the back of his throat, eliciting another bloody cough into his hand. Kaz had originally mistaken the slight haze in the air to be from unsettled dirt and dust, but the taste and burn indicated some kind of fire. He needed to get out and assess the damage. His fingers fumbled with the straps of his seatbelt, eventually prying open the buckles and latches to free himself. The fasteners bristled against the metal shard, causing another spike of pain to force out a gasp.

Within another few moments, Kaz pulled himself out of the co-pilot's seat. He looked down at the shard, grimacing at the sight of blood oozing through his white shirt. His right hand reached instinctively for his belt, opening the small medkit he kept fasted to him at all times. His fingers brushed against a metal ampule, pulling it from the pack. He tapped the end of the ampule, and a needle poked out the other end. Kaz turned his gaze to the metal shard, taking in a deep breath to focus. On its own, the small metal shard slowly pulled itself out of the Jedi. As soon as it was out, Kaz jabbed the kolto shot into his shoulder above the wound. It made quick work of clotting the wound and providing some physical relief. He dropped the ampule to the ground, hearing it roll off into the corner of the shuttle’s cockpit.

It took him a few minutes to pry metal out of the way enough for Kaz to begin crawling out the front of the cockpit. His stomach bumped and scraped along the rocky wall of the gorge, cushioned only slightly by bright green foliage that seemed to line even the most inhospitable surfaces. When he was free from the claustrophobic crawl, the Nautolan rolled down a few meters to the damp bed of the gorge's stream. The sharp slate walls had left a couple fresh scratches into his coat sleeves, but it was clear his body was at its limits.

Further downstream, the cockpit of the Z-95 snubfighter popped open with a loud hiss. A helmeted figure in a patchwork brown flightsuit rose up from its seat, disconnecting a couple tubes and hoses from its chest and helmet. It removed the helmet, revealing a mane of orange fur and a flat, wrinkled face. The Hylobon jumped down from the cockpit, stretching its arms and neck as it began to cross down the length of the stream towards the distressed Nautolan. A wicked grin colored his flat face, his gruff voice nagging with sadistic glee. "Well, well, well… you’ve caused quite an inconvenience, kid."

Kaz struggled to lift himself to his hands and knees, taking in a few pained breaths as his body was still recovering from the rush of chemicals and rapid healing. He took in a quick breath, and let out a soft plea. "We were unarmed… I was just passing through. I meant no harm."

The pirate smiled a sharp, toothy grin. "We bloody well knew that. My boss just isn't a fan of loose ends."

"You don't have to do this. You can just walk away."

The Hylobon scratched his chin, letting out a deep sigh as his dominant hand reached for a holstered blaster at his side. "Sorry, kid… but we've got a schedule to keep. It's just business."

Kaz's fingers dug into wet stones lining the brook, trying desperately to steady his breathing. Everything felt muddled, his connection to the abundance of life around him feeling distant. Through the fog, he could feel… something. It felt strong, momentous, important. Everything was connected, drawn together by invisible threads. He latched on to that feeling, trying to push through the fog. He trusted the force. He had to.

The loud whine of a blaster rang out through the air, sending a flock of orobirds into the air a click away.

Fashionably Late: A Crime Thriller Roleplay

Finally got some time to catch up on reading the IC today. Great intro posts so far y'all!