"Name."

"Mm. Yeah. You ready for it? Got your pen poised? Good. Fuck off."

"Name, smart ass. This'll take as short or as long as you make it."

He was under arrest. Again. It certainly wasn't the first time he'd seen the inside of a cell. It wasn't the first time he'd sassed some pissant jailor, either. Or the first time he'd thrown another man's pistol down the sewer. Or the first he'd broken a guardsman's nose. Or the first he'd gone rabid in the ensuing scuffle and bitten the same guardsman and drawn blood like a dog that just won't quit. He only knew that part because the jailor had said it. Well...and by the taste of someone else's copper that stuck to his teeth.

First time he'd been in jail in this place, though. That was something.

Fletcher gripped the bars a little tighter and wrung them back and forth. "Jackdaw," he growled. The name rolled right across his tongue and out the door before he could think to stop it, and dragged with it a shard of glass for every single time he'd said it before. He scowled. He didn't need any more ghosts following him around. Aya was bloody well enough.

"Come again?" the jailor said.

"Depends. Your mother around?"

"You make that one up all by your cheeky little self?" His captor sneered over at him, then returned to his book and jotted something down. "Jackdaw? What in Ansgar's holy prick kind of name is that? Fucking Adelans, I swear...hmmf." More notes. More ungodly scratching of pen on parchment. Fletch bored a hole in the man's forehead for lack of anything better to do. "Surname, Mr. Jackdaw? Or are you one of those types with the animals and the straw huts?"

Fletcher's eyes narrowed at the all-too-familiar jab. No, he thought. But I know a man who'd have a thing or two to say about that. Or...knew. He knew a man. And that was the whole bloody point, wasn't it? Ven was gone, the coward, and now he was left to carry on alone. Or, as it would seem, to start fights with the locals in this forsaken place. There wasn't much else to carry on with, after all, and rage was the only force that still propelled him forward.

"Daw," he snapped. "Jack. Daw. You pick your ear a little too close to your brains?"

"Ooh, hit a nerve," the jailor tutted, undeterred in his line of questioning. "Daw," he chuckled. He drew a line and revised his entry. "Well, Mr. Daw. Best make yourself comfortable in there. I hear we're paradise compared to the Reajh prison."

Fletcher scoffed. "Prison? For chucking some twat's gun down a drain? For getting in a scrap?"

The jailor set his pen aside and regarded Fletcher over his great fleshy nose. For the first time, he seemed serious. "That twat was a Mordecai. I don't know how things are done in Adela, Mr. Daw, but you'd best hope you have some friends in high places here. If you don't — and you sure don't look like it — I'd be prepared to sit and rot a good, long while."

With that, he moved the logbook aside, kicked his boots up on the desk, produced a pipe, and lit it. Fletch released the bars and stepped back to slump down against the cold stone. He leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling, turning his predicament over and over. He'd find a way out. He always did. Didn't he?

"Fuck," he muttered.

TW: Brief mentions of death and drug use

Jackdaw is an alternate universe version of Fletcher, and this character profile leans on that one as a baseline.


__________________QUICK STATS

Name Devlin Fletcher, alias Jackdaw
Age 41
Gender Male
Species Human
Ethnicity Jenian - a desert people
Height 5'10"
Occupation Mercenary
Residence Wherever something needs doing.


__________________IN-DEPTH STUFF

Physical Description
Jackdaw did away with his dreadlocks long ago, and keeps his frizzy curls cropped short. He's begun to gray at the temples, though he insists that it's from stress and not a sign of his years. His signature week-old stubble remains. In another departure from his former appearance, Jackdaw now sports an eye patch over his blinded, damaged left eye.

Jackdaw is fit enough by his own standards, but he's slowing...he certainly isn't as quick or agile as he was in his twenties, as much as he hates to admit it. Once an enthusiastic drinker, Jackdaw gave up the stuff recently and has vowed never to touch it again. He's tried numerous times to stop smoking to little success, and can often be found indulging in a cigarette.


Personality
ENFJ / chaotic good
Over time, Jackdaw's moral compass has steered him towards the path of good. This isn't to say that he's any less acerbic. On the contrary: with Ven's death, he's entirely stopped caring what people think of him. He speaks his mind and curses with reckless abandon. But he no longer seeks to find people's weaknesses and manipulate them — unless, of course, they deserve it.

There are two things that Jackdaw can't stand and won't abide: firearms and opium. This has become his crusade, and he toes the line with vigilantism.


History
Where Fletcher left his world before Ven could fix it, in another life, Jackdaw carried on and saw it through with his own version of Ven. After all was said and done, the two of them headed south to stabilize a buckling slave rebellion, and it was here that Jackdaw earned his alias. And, after the years as revolutionaries wore them both down, they finally found a peaceful corner of the world and settled in to a quiet life.

But it was not happily ever after for Jackdaw. With Ven's untimely passing, he left their home behind, this time with Ven's wolf dog Aya in tow. As he journeyed, his dreams became strange and vivid. He began to hear voices even when awake. He hallucinated old, long-dead friends. And then, one day, he awoke...and found himself somewhere else entirely, with only Aya for company.


Magic/Abilities
He's pretty good with a rapier, and he can still hold his own in a brawl.


Relationships
He insists that Aya isn't his dog. She won't listen to him, but she does follow him, and he does keep feeding her.


__________________THREAD TRACKER

Current Threads


Complete Threads

The days grew shorter. The nights were colder. He remembered it from before, somehow: that autumn fell harsh and bitter upon the ridges of mountains. He would not survive a winter up there, exposed to the elements. He knew he must descend to the lands that sprawled out below and take his chances there.

If...he wished to survive. If.

It was against his very nature to consider such an end. And yet, were he to find a village kind enough to take him in until spring, he feared he would be a burden to them. The gnawing frost reminded him daily of his years. Memories surfaced of a time long ago: a winter spent alone in the wilderness. He had survived it then with the vigor of youth at his side. He was not certain that he could do so now, as a man in his twilight, with dulling eyes and stiff knuckles and knees that cracked.

The old man who stared back at him from beneath still waters was wrinkled by sun and scarred by war. What use was an old man to a village? He was but another mouth to feed. Like dirt over a threshold, he would drag in with him the curse of his own haunted mind. His lapsing sanity. Waking nightmares that broke only when he bruised his hands in his blinding rage, or fell gasping and weeping to the ground. He was shackled to that raw wound of memory that bled anew each and every day. It became worse by the week.

What use was such an invalid?

Yet, by cowardice or stubbornness of will, he was not ready to die. Not in such an unfamiliar place. Not alone. So he would descend into the lowlands, and he would seek a village. And he would be useful — as useful as an old man could.

The chill air softened to the north, and further still to the east, and he followed that path for as far as he could. Mountains gave way to valleys and foothills, and those gave way yet again to a flat, rolling landscape. The forests changed. The trees were...comforting, somehow. Like...home. The earth smelled of it, too, and the mosses underfoot were a welcome change from harsh rock and gravel. The mountains had not been kind to him. He had not known it until the ache went away. Until his lungs felt satisfied by the breaths he took.

The night he made camp up on a little knoll, the easterly winds carried with them some indescribable scent. The next day, he found a set of footprints in the mud near a stream. By the time he made camp again, he was certain of it: he was being tracked. Watched. He kept an ear to the wilds, now, and his hand upon his ax. If they were friend, he would ask what he needed. If they were not...he would be ready.

That night, beside a smokey fire, with a belly full of cattail root, Eln slipped once more into a fitful sleep. His fingers gripped the ax head. His tired muscles twitched and spasmed. The memory-wound split open. He fell through it into grief.

TW: Implied SA, transphobia, sex workers/sex work


QUICK STATS

Name
Evira "Evie" Harper

Age
26

Gender
Female

Species
Half-Kasi - a horned semi-nomadic people of the boreal forests and tundra

Height
6'1"

Occupation
Prostitute; spy and point of contact for the Connlaothian underground railroad

Residence
The Wild Rose brothel, just outside of Uthlyn, Connlaoth


IN-DEPTH STUFF

History
Evie was born in Connlaoth to an unknown father and a destitute Adelan mother. Her mother, a devout Ansgarian, was determined to assimilate into the Connlaothian church and culture. From a young age, Evie was forced to doubt and suppress her true self. She was made to wear boys' clothing and encouraged to learn to fight — to be a real man. Children her age, especially boys, sensed that she was different and ruthlessly bullied her. At age 13, desperate to be free, she ran away from home. But life on the street was even more difficult. She was now at the mercy of both the elements and other people. In one particularly bad scrap, Evie broke her leg. It never quite healed the right way, and though it excused her from conscription, to this day she walks with a slight limp. And, after multiple incidents with the law, Evie was forced into indentured servitude to atone for her transgressions.

Evie exchanged hands multiple times over the years before her remaining debt was purchased by the madam of The Wild Rose — a scandalously popular brothel nestled in a dingy corner of Uthlyn. The change was bittersweet. She was still a slave, but being a working girl gave her more control and stability than she had ever experienced. Not only was she encouraged to dress in a feminine manner, but many things now happened on her terms that previously hadn't. Occasionally, men who were especially enthralled with her "exoticism" would return and bring her tokens of their interest, lining her pockets with more coin than she had ever seen.

Still, her heart remained out on the street with the beggars and urchins. Before long, she was contacted out of the blue by an acquaintance and informed that an old friend had gone missing and was presumed in danger. Evie forged a partnership with the acquaintance — and his network of slave-liberating radicals. She bonded even more with them through the heartbreak of finding her friend horrifically murdered at the hands of his master. From that day forward, she vowed to help the radicals keep her fellow slaves out of harm's reach. Due to the nature of her job, she proved invaluable as a spy. But the deeper she sunk into their machinations, the more inextricably entangled she became.


Physical Description
Evie is tall and lanky, with brown skin atypical of your average Connlaothian. Her eyes are a deep, steely blue-green. She has her mother's hair — long, dense, dark, and wavy — which she usually keeps braided out of her face. What really sets her out of place in Connlaoth, though, are her horns: a pair of them, like corkscrew goat horns, that begin at her hairline and sweep back over her skull to terminate just past her ears.

When in private, Evie wears whatever typical Connlaothian women's fashions she can get her hands on. When she has to go out in public, however, she adopts a masculine look in order to keep a low profile and avoid harassment.


Personality
ESFJ / Neutral Good
Evie is driven by a fierce sense of justice, but over time, that drive has warped into fervor. To her, helping the helpless is an imperative and not an option. This determination has led her down the path of radicalization and sometimes skews her ability to rationalize. There are moments now where she fully commits to the idea that the end justifies the means — including means that involve self-destructive behaviors. She will run herself into the ground if it means doing the right thing a little longer.

Although her zeal might obscure it, Evie is a sensitive soul and an idealist. She wants, above all, to love and to be loved. In spite of her profession, she still hopes that some day, someone will stick around and accept her for who she is. She longs for a world where different peoples don't hate and ostracize each other, or kill each other over seemingly nothing. Yet she's been led to believe that she has to become such a person in order to make the world a better place for those who suffer. She wants so badly to see the good in everyone she meets, but she has to keep reminding herself that most people are just out for themselves.


Magic/Abilities
None


Relationships
Evie is a good sister to the other working girls and has a decent rapport with the madam. Her friendships with the other radicals are flawed at best; they see her as an instrument to use, and any interactions she has with them are tinged with that expectation. Those of them who aren't sex workers also tend to look down on her, though they still expect her to pull through with information. Most of them misgender her and treat her gender expression as just an aberration or a tool of her trade.


__________________THREAD TRACKER

Current Threads
Cold Trail, Warm Bed [Nightcrawler!]


Complete Threads

He was lost.

Aye, there were mountains, but they were not his mountains. There were trees, but those of his homeland. His legs knew the slopes, but his heart did not. In nigh half a moon he had not seen one familiar medicine plant. And the beasts...some bled and tasted the same: deer and elk and fish and rabbit. Others were strange. Here there were lizards as great as a longhouse with leather wings like those of a bat. They circled the peaks above him and roared their thunder with the lungs of a hundred bears. They glittered like twisting knives forged of copper and gems. He scarcely believed his eyes.

"What madness is this?" he had asked himself as he gazed, bewildered, up at them. There came no answer. Once, there was another within him, taunting him and driving him to madness until he lay utterly broken. As for the time before it had entered his mind unbidden...he could not recall. Now, there was only silence: blessed, yet unnerving in its rawness. Deafening. He wondered if he was dead at last, and this the realm of his god. There was good hunting here, after all. It was the closest to sense that he had made of anything. If it were so, then he knew that such signs would reveal themselves in time. So he traveled on. Towards what, he did not know.

The morning after the flying lizards, he awoke to rain and birds, broke his fast with the last of his smoked venison, and continued down the rugged valley. For three days, he had followed a babbling creek that cut a rocky clearing and forged the path ahead. Now he made it four. By noon, as his footsteps slowed in anticipation of a short rest, something glinted on the horizon. He cocked his head but could make nothing more of the thing. Was it a city, perhaps? A signal fire? ...Was it a sign? Whatever it could be, it burned bright against the dense forest. He pressed on, propelled if only by a need for certainty.

But it was not a fire, nor was it civilization. No: it was another lizard. The creature lay limp across the rocks. Its massive scales, each as broad as his hand, shimmered and caught the sunlight like fine-hewn jewelry. A woven bracelet hung from its tree-trunk wrist, embroidered with a string of pictures and lines. Had it known people? he wondered. If it had, they were brave indeed to come near such a goliath.

The beast was a small one — smaller, at least, than those of its kin that he had spotted skyward. Yet up close, it was easily the largest animal he had ever witnessed. Larger than the moose. Larger even than the white bear. He circled it cautiously, his hand resting on the ax head at his hip, until he came at last face-to-face with one filmy, clouded eye. He stared for a moment into the void of its catlike pupil, paralyzed by wonderment. Then a fly landed on that glassy surface. He leaned away, the spell broken. The beast was dead.

And then he spotted it: an arrow. And another in its chest, and yet another protruding from its thigh. He bent to inspect the wounds and ran his fingers through smears of thick blood. He drew them back in surprise. His eyes narrowed. The thing was still warm. Still very warm. This was not some lost quarry left to rot. He had stumbled upon a fresh kill. The hunters would not be far.

And far they were not, for no sooner had he stood again then he heard them crashing and yelling and crunching through the underbrush. There were several of them. Three, at least. Enough to cause him more trouble than he wished for without a man at his back. Without a moment's hesitation, he rounded the massive corpse, swung his shield from his back, dug its point into the gravel before him, and crouched. Stealth was a woman's art: meant for smaller bodies and nimbler hands. He did not expect it to last long. Still, he waited.

"I saw her come down by that tree, there, I know she did — "

"She could land on my own mother and I wouldn't come near her," another interjected. "They're hot on our tail. We need to go. Now."

"We're not leaving without those teeth," a third growled. A woman. "We didn't come out this far just to scamper away like scared little mice." An appreciative whistle cut through the sound of rushing water. The hunters stopped in their tracks for a moment, admiring their kill. "There she is. There's our girl. Fan out. Keep an eye on the treeline. And be useful and hand me that saw — wait, what's — "

She had stopped speaking. Feet pounded rock and gravel as she approached. He glanced at his shoulder and scowled. His cloak was brilliant red. What a fool he'd been. He was completely unequipped for this. He stood, shield and ax at the ready, and eyed each of these strangers in turn.

"What in the — "

"Ambush!" the fearful man declared. "I told you we shouldn't have — "

The woman held a hand up. "Shut your damned mouth for one minute, Aren. Will you? Just look at him. He's no tribal. He's not even human." She stepped towards him slowly, her hand resting on the hilt of a wicked sword, ready to draw it. Her eyes darted between his ax, his shield, his horns. He'd seen it a hundred times over. She was sizing him up. She was preparing to attack. "You have one chance to explain yourself, stranger," she growled, "before we gut you and send your corpse over the falls."

He glanced at the others. Could he survive this? He did not know.

He had no other options.

TW: Implied SA; mention of mutilation, mentions of child abuse, mention of ableism, mention of sibling and parent death


QUICK STATS

Name
Eln-of-Ara of Bear Clan

Age
38, yet ancient

Gender
Male

Species
Kasi - a horned semi-nomadic people of the boreal forests and tundra

Height
5'11"

Occupation
Formerly a leader of the warrior men of his clan. Now, lost and surviving.

Residence
None


IN-DEPTH STUFF

History
Eln was the first son born to the Bear Clan matriarch. Had his childhood been uneventful, such parentage might have offered him a happier life. Shortly after his birth, however, his sire fell well out of his mother's favor, and she passed her deep resentment of the man onto her newborn son. She bore two more children in the coming years: another son and a daughter, both to a second sire. Eln's brother, a sickly boy who by all rights should have been left in the wild to perish, inherited his father's cruel streak and relentlessly abused their sister. When Eln finally caught wind of this, it was far too late, and he watched his beloved sister die in his arms. He sought retribution from his brother, only to quickly be blamed by his mother for his sister's death. His clan sawed his horns from his head and banished him into the wild, not to return until they regrew.

Even after he returned from his banishment, a young Ven in tow, Eln was an outsider to his people. His worth was reduced to what he could provide in labor and in protection, and as he blamed himself for not stopping his sister's murder, he never questioned this punishment. To this day, this is how he sees himself: valuable only as a servant to those he is sworn to.

Years later, devastation struck the westernmost clans. War fell upon them. From west across the mountains came agents of a wicked empire to abscond with their children in the black of night for some profane purpose. From the south, the colonists pushed further into the forest in search of gold. And from the east, their own human-allied clansmen turned against them. When Bear Clan's warlord fell in battle, Eln took up the mantle, embarked on a journey to unite the fractured Kasi clans into one formidable force, and drove the invaders back.

His victory was due in no small part to Ven's discovery of a dark and ancient magic that imbued their bodies with godlike immortality. But the cost of said victory was far too steep. By cheating the very forces of nature, the people of the North awoke their wrathful god, and he rained devastation down upon them on the battlefield. In his rage he tore the very fabric of the world and doomed it to a slow, festering death. All but a few refugees perished that day, and those who died became the undead servants of a furious deity. Eln's body became the vessel to that very god. He lived century upon century as a prisoner in his own mind, looking on helplessly as the force within him used him as a tool to commit countless atrocities. The horror of it broke him and drove him to madness. Even now, free again at last, he will never be the same.

In the process of banishing the parasite within him, Eln passed through the tear in the world and fell into a new, unknown land. He cannot remember his home or the faces of his people. His memories are fragmented. He is alone; the ghosts of a thousand years passed are his only company now. For the first time, he doesn't have a purpose. Perhaps, in time, he will find one.


Physical Description
Eln's body has been pushed beyond its natural life manyfold over, and the years are finally catching up with him. However, he still cuts a formidable figure. He is broad, dense, and well-muscled, with the body fat of a man who eats well and fights well. He is easily strong enough to hold his own in battle.

A typical example of his people, Eln's complexion is ashen brown like dry earth. He was once covered in scars from head to toe, but by some profane magic, they have now disappeared. His horns, which never properly healed after his banishment, have now likewise grown back over his skull into a glorious crown. Eln's dark brown hair is long, thick, and wirey, and he keeps it bound out of his face for the sake of practicality. Streaks of silver betray his age, as do the wrinkles that crease his cheeks and furrowed brow. His eyes are a deep, stormy blue-gray, and his gaze is harsh, piercing, and skeptical. He often sports a great deal of salt-and-pepper stubble, as it has never been particularly important for him to look kempt.

Eln dresses for utility and warmth, though he still occasionally favors the bright colors and patterns of his people's garb. He will ultimately wear what makes the most sense for his environment and survival needs. As for gear, he is most comfortable in leather, padded armor, or maille, and knows his way around shields, spears, axes, and to a lesser extent, longbows.


Personality
ISTJ / lawful good
Eln stubbornly views the world in black and white, and he doesn't easily adopt new ways of thinking. His bull-headedness often makes him impossible to reason with; most of the time, he will not even attempt to argue when he believes that he's right, opting instead for dismissive grunts or one-word answers. Because of this tendency, fear and anxiety can easily gain a foothold within him — to dangerous results. If he believes there is an imminent danger that must be addressed, he will seek to meet it head on and will fight it to the death, and he will ignore any pleas to stand down. Thus his loyalty, once earned, must be closely supervised lest it cause him to do more harm than good.

Eln's impatience and impulsiveness is balanced on the other hand by his fortitude and stoicism. If he believes he must wait for something, he will wait for it forever without complaint. If he loves someone whom he believes that he does not deserve, he will simply attempt to ignore his own wishes until either they pass or he does. He may be dour, but Eln has a fierce sense of justice where children are involved, and he will move quickly to keep them safe. When faced with hardship and bleak odds, he will not falter, but will continue to press forward until the bitter end. These qualities make him an indispensable warrior and protector.

A son of a matriarchal people, Eln reveres women and defers to them as the authority in all matters but the art of war making. He will not question a woman's decisions aloud unless she gives him clear reason to doubt her trustworthiness. He doesn't see men as competition, as, due to his banishment, he was never considered to be worthy sire material. Rather, he tends to view younger men as warriors in need of training, and those older than him as mentors. Nevertheless, given his suspicious and skeptical nature, he will be on guard when meeting new people, especially if they look differently than him.



Magic/Abilities
None. He is extremely competent as a fighter, but he possesses no arcane abilities.


Relationships
Eln only briefly met his father and never had a relationship with the man. From the start, he internalized and accepted his mother's unrelenting disdain as somehow necessary and deserved, and he loved and respected her until she passed. Eln deeply cared for his sister and still carries the heavy grief of her passing in his heart.

Eln was closest to his adopted brother Ven, though neither of them would define it as closeness at all. They often butted heads; Ven was, at his core, a pacifist idealist, while Eln was a violent pragmatist by necessity. Nevertheless, as both were outsiders in their own way, they found kinship and company in each other. If they should find each other again, they may remember that brotherhood.


__________________THREAD TRACKER

Current Threads
Dragonland [Bunbun]


Complete Threads

He reached the encampment just as night fell.

He was soaked to the bone. His boots were caked in mud up to the ankle. His hair was limp and sopping and it clung in thin, sad strands to his cheeks. The rain hadn't let up for hours, and it had made him a sorry sight indeed. In the distance, through the mist and the heavy downpour, he'd spotted it: half a dozen thin, silvery snakes of smoke rising from a cleft between the mountains. It was enough to hope that, whomever these people were, they were numerous enough that they had a gods-damned map of this place among them. It would be dangerous to try. He would have to be careful. But still, against his better judgment, he trudged on towards that singular sign of civilization.

The mud grew slick as Ven approached. He kept a firm grip on his staff. He could barely see his fingers in the waning light, but it was enough to know that they were filthy. He did not like to be so unkempt. A bath, he thought. My right hand for a bath. He desperately needed one. He did not stink in the way that a living man would after weeks of survival in the wilderness, nor did he ache as such. Even so, he wanted nothing more than a warm soak and a pot of ash soap and to dry out on a cedar mat in the sun. He had memories, some faint and some sharp as flint, of the steaming sulfur pools of his living years. Of washing away the day's toil and the weight and weariness of war. Yet, though the mountains that loomed above him looked as young and jagged as those he could recall, he'd seen nothing of the sort in these lands.

A patrol. Even in this weather. He hadn't seen the guardsman coming and now he was within an arrow's flight of the man. Shit, Ven thought. He quickly ducked off the beaten path and pushed in past the treeline. He pulled his mask up over his nose to hide his pallor. He waited. Somehow, blessedly, he had not been spotted. He breathed a sigh of relief and continued on, now weaving between the bushes and trunks. At last, he reached the palisade. These strange folk had built it well. It was a struggle to scale, and he cursed them beneath his breath. Nevertheless, he found his way up like a boy would shinny up a tree. He dropped to the other side and caught his fall with his staff.

Lights. Sounds. People. There were people everywhere, here, and now he could smell them. He grimaced. He had fed the demon that morning to pacify it. Somewhere, miles behind him, an unfortunate farmer was less a herd of cattle. He was sure the trail of death he'd left would rouse suspicion, yet he'd done what he must to keep the demon in check. But still, he felt its pull. It seemed it would not relent until it took a stronger life. A human life.

A sudden, keen awareness struck him of just how foolish he'd been by coming here. He brushed it away. He was here now, and he might as well finish this. He pressed on, clinging to the shadows, watching these odd folk come and go. Some of them were armored. Many of them wore tabards. Of all of the places I could have chosen, he admonished himself as he slid past a window, I have found the one armed most to the teeth. He chanced to glance in. His heart, though it didn't beat, leapt at the sight of a desk — and on that desk, a map.

He tested the window. It swung ajar. The room was empty. Could it be so easy?

He'd come this far. He'd try it. As quietly as he could, Ven hoisted himself through the window and landed with a soft squelch. He stopped. Listened. Still nothing. Nodding to himself, he began to cross the room towards his prize.

Without warning, footsteps pounded against the floor. Ven jumped. Panicked. Someone approached all too fast for him to hide. A woman rounded the corner, dressed in that same tabard he'd seen on the others, calling over her shoulder as she walked. "A mo', I've just got to run back and — " She stopped. Her pale eyes widened in alarm as she looked him up and down. "And who the hell are you supposed to be? Wh..."

"My apologies. I shouldn't be here." Ven dropped his staff to clatter on the ground. He raised his hands, palms out in a gesture of nonviolence. He ducked his head and backed away, step by step, hoping to the gods that she hadn't seen his —

"VAMPIRE!" She screamed. "To me! We have a vampire!"

He winced. This night was about to be a lot more miserable.

He arrived, at long last, to a place that promised answers. The journey south had stretched on for what seemed an eternity: first by foot, and then by some unsuspecting farmer's cart as a stowaway. He had caught errant rumors, here and there, in taverns and in inns, of an impressive library near the city that these foreign folk declared their capital. "Arca", he thought he'd heard it called. It was not a word with which he was familiar. At first, he had fought the temptation to seek out such a wealth of knowledge. Any contact with these hostile folk could prove disastrous — a lesson that he had learned within minutes of his awakening here. To travel towards civilization was surely foolish, he'd told himself. He would put many in danger by doing so. But his desire for answers once again washed wisdom down the river. And so, he had arrived.

Slowly, inch by inch, Ven closed the side door behind him until the latch clicked. He winced. It was such a whisper of a sound, yet it echoed along the cavernous halls before him. He froze, still bent with his gloved hand on the door, and strained an ear for footsteps. He had chosen the dead of night for good reason. But, as a man who had spent countless hours poring over tablets and manuscripts by dwindling candlelight, he knew that there might be a chance that some young, curious mind was still awake with their nose in a book. The seconds passed in silence. No one came.

Good, he thought. Still, he made certain that his mask held firm over his face, and he tugged his hood a little lower. Then he set forth and rolled his feet to muffle the noise, clinging to the shadows as he worked his way across the moonlit vestibule to a broad archway. Past the threshold, an opulent ceiling rose high above him like a golden sky. He stopped in his tracks, lips parted and neck craned, and he stared. He counted two — no, three floors, and on each, as far as he could see: row upon row of shelves twice his height. He could not recall encountering anything like it in all of his years. And now, he had no idea where to begin.

But he could not afford to stand and deliberate. Ven turned and tiptoed along the wall, aiming for the nearest shelf. Those closest to the entrance held all manner of strange trophies and artifacts and instruments. He thought he could spend forever here examining them all and discerning their purpose. Perhaps if this place were abandoned some day, he might. But no. He forced his eyes forward. He had to focus.

And then he saw it. A map.

Ven glanced over his shoulder. He was confident that he was alone. He bent over the glass case and peered eagerly down at this first glimpse at an answer. He frowned. He squinted. He shook his head in disbelief. He did not recognize the lands depicted. Nothing about this map was familiar. The continent was not a shape he knew, nor were the rivers, nor the mountains. And there were no words, no labels to tell him —

"No," he breathed. There were labels there: little squiggles beneath the cities and hugging the rivers. He simply could not read them. Perhaps it is an old map, he thought. He snatched a book from a nearby cart and flipped through the pages. But no: he could not read this one, either. Nor could he read the second, nor the third.

"No!" he hissed. He set the final book down with rather more force than was wise. The ceiling bounced the smack of cover on cover back and forth, mocking him, until it vanished into the dark. Ven sighed and closed his eyes. Suddenly, he did not care that he had been loud. He had come all this way for answers, only to find them locked behind a script that bore no resemblance at all to anything he had witnessed. "Were that you people sung your stories instead of writing them," he lamented. He stood alone in the dark, fuming and ruminating and collecting his thoughts.

Northwatch, near the pass



"Stay behind. Mr. Fletcher, STAY BACK."

"I can't, it's pulling me in, I — Lyssy, GO!"

The man in red disappeared before him, and in an instant, so, too, did the world. Sky became ground, ground turned to sky, and the planes swirled and muddied like ink in a glass. They bled in through his periphery and obscured his sight. All went black in that spinning void.

Ven awoke with his face pressed into the moss and duff. He breathed deeply of the earth and the cool air. It smelled like home, but...not home. And what was home? He tried to remember, but his mind was still so foggy, and his thoughts flitted away like clever little birds, ever avoiding his grasp. Perhaps it did not matter anymore. He knew he was hungry — that much was for certain. He knew he must eat. He slid his arms beneath him, dragging fistfuls of detritus, until, finally, he managed to lurch into a kneel. He opened his eyes to a strange forest and a dusk sky above.

Hungry, urged a strange voice from within.

"I know," he rasped back, and his voice came forth like coarse stones. He pressed his slight fingertips to his mouth and found it cold to the touch. Had it always been this way? Had he? But the voice was right. He had to find food, and soon. Slowly, stiffly, Ven rose to his feet. His knees crackled like twigs. I must be old, he thought. The voice within him simply laughed. It pressed up against his consciousness like a prisoner reaching between the cell bars. He almost thought he could feel it sneering.

He didn't like that laugh. Something about this was very dangerous. Something told him that the cell was closed for good reason. That the voice was not his own. But he had to get moving. So he bent. He brushed the dirt and dead leaves from his front. He glanced up at the sky to try to get his bearings.

A crossbow bolt whizzed suddenly past his ear and sunk deep into a nearby tree with a resolute thunk. Ven spun, his hair whipping wildly, his fist clenched to wield a quarterstaff that was not there. He could just make out the thunder of horses' hooves. How had he missed their approach? How could he have allowed himself to be so distracted?

"There he is!" a man bellowed.

"Vampire!" a woman cried. It was not a term Ven knew. He didn't need to. The bolt had sung their intentions quite clearly: they meant to hunt him down like an animal. If they were on horseback, he knew they would easily succeed. Only...that dark thing within him didn't see them as any sort of challenge. No, it watched them from behind his blackened eyes with that same ravenous hunger. It looked at them and it saw food.

Memories assaulted him. All were fragmented beyond repair, but together they were enough to paint a picture: that he would kill them all, and would do it easily, and that the very act would change him. He held his hands up. He began to back away. "Stay back," he called in that same gravelly voice. "Please. For your own sakes. Stay away from me."

The second bolt hit him square in the gut.

"Stay behind. Mr. Fletcher, STAY BACK."

"I can't, it's pulling me in, I — Lyssy, GO!"

Everything went dark. Everything felt...wrong. The world spun like he'd hit the bottom of the bottle. Like he was underwater and upside down, and the waves kept churning and rolling. Something cold and hard hit him square in the shoulder. His neck lurched. He smacked his ear against stone. And then...nothing. Quiet.

A familiar stench played at his nostrils. Something small patted along his side. He grunted. "Mmh. Lys? Bit early for that, love — " he mumbled. He heard a gasp from above. A child's voice. A child's footsteps. Some little shit was going through his pockets, then. Not Lys. And...who was Lys? He tried to focus, but her face slid from his mind. Who was...? No. Now he couldn't even remember her name. A second passed. He forgot what he'd been trying to think of at all. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe he should just nurse this hangover first.

The hand went back in his pocket. Grubby fingers wiggled and grasped about, questing for treasure. Fletcher's eyes snapped open. "Oi!" he barked. The exertion of that single word sent his head screaming and pounding. Stars flashed before him. Wherever he was, it was dim, but holy fucking emperor: even that was too bright. "Fuck me," he grumbled. He lifted an arm and swiped blindly behind him. By sheer luck, he managed to smack his pint-sized assailant. "Get off of me, you little bastard. Go lift coin from someone else." He heard the footsteps recede and echo above him. An alley, then. He was in an alley. Well, it sure as shit explained the smell.

Slowly, carefully, Fletch pushed himself up off of the slick, grimey cobble. He leaned against the brick wall behind him and worked his way to his feet. He squinted down the alley and tried to focus on that searing rectangle of sunlight that marked a main street. It was no use. It was still a blur. He wondered absently if he'd been given wood alcohol. Wouldn't be the first time he'd swilled contaminated bottom shelf. "Would certainly explain the fucking headache." But...where had he been, that he'd been drinking like that? And where was he now? Come to think of it, nothing about this alley looked familiar. The brick was all wrong. The color, too. And what was more... He shivered and pulled his frock coat tighter around himself. It was cold, here. Cold like the city had never been.

Something wasn't right about this. Not right at all.

Fletch groaned. He was tired of "adventure". And right now, everything hurt too much for him to solve a bloody mystery. That was Ven's job.

Who was Ven?

"Never mind it," he told himself. Maybe Ven didn't matter, either. His first order of business was to get his head in order. He shoved a hand in his coat pocket and rifled around. His fingers brushed a few errant bits of linty tobacco at the bottom. Fletch looked down. He wiggled them again just to be sure. He came up empty. The pickpocket had nicked his fags. It was turning out to be a very bad day for him, it seemed. His heart began to pound in his ears. "Oh, you little — GET BACK HERE!" he roared. His temples split from the pain and his vision went white again, but he didn't care. Nobody took Devlin Fletcher's cigarettes. He took off running down the alley and burst into the light — and into a world where nothing made sense.

Ven
Soul Vampire Monk



Fletch
Scoundrel



Jackdaw
Mercenary



Eln
Haggard Warrior



Evie
Spy

What are your favorite kinds of plots and relationships to play?

Conflict and resolution are what drives a story forward, so...I think I most enjoy plots that spark conflict and spur character introspection and growth. I also like there to be some balance between peaceful moments and fight scenes. I think I prefer a plot with a bit of fun, adventure, and humor thrown in, as long as it doesn't feel out of place or end up being immersion breaking.


What are your least favorite kinds of plots and relationships to play?

Plots where characters stay in one place for too long, just kind of hang out and chat forever, or don't have a goal. I think I need variety and velocity. I'd also get bored by character dynamics that end up being too simple and easy to navigate.


What are your favorite character types to play?

I tend to play male or AMAB characters. I've noticed that most of my characters end up having avoidant attachment styles, which is a habit I'm trying to break!

I love writing characters who have layers upon layers of complex backstory, conflicting motivations, selfish desires, and deep flaws. I love keeping them in a moral gray area and exploring what they will do when faced with their own hypocrisy and shortcomings.


Are you a planner or a pantser? Do you prefer to pre-plan and stick to a script when posting, or do you prefer to surprise and be surprised?

Pantser. Planning would defeat the point for me. Surprise is entirely what makes this fun.


How do you feel about group threads?

I think I can do 3 people total, but anything above that starts getting messy.


How often can you reply to any given thread? How long should a partner wait before nudging you for a post?

Usually I'm good for once or twice a day, but that'll vary and I might have to skip days due to my schedule.


What is the longest you're willing to wait for a reply to a thread?

Probably a week or two. If it's a really exciting plot I'll probably die a bit inside, but I can manage.


How do you feel about instant messenger RP?
I'd be cool with Discord DMs.


How do you feel about post volleying/rapidfire RP?
(Where you and another player post rapidly back and forth in a thread with each other.)

I don't think I'd enjoy this. I like taking some time to absorb, write, and edit.


What's your preferred posting style? Long posts? Short posts? Anything and everything?

I average about 3-7 paragraphs depending on how much detail is necessary. I don't want to drag out my posts with unnecessary detail if it's not warranted, so sometimes I do keep it on the shorter side of that range.


Any RP styles/habits that you love?

Writing RPs like we're writing a book. I don't mean that in terms of post length. I mean that the vibe and the quality ends up being what ultimately draws me in. I love when there's a meaty plot, intrigue, drama, and a gritty, believable setting.


Any RP styles/habits that you avoid?

Excessive anime influence, cutesy baby talk, cartoony anthro/furry themes (excluding animal races like D&D or similar), super short posts (3-4 sentences) with very little detail, super long posts (10+ paragraphs) with unnecessarily dense detail.




What are you limits regarding powerplay/godmoding?
(For instance, do you mind if someone grabs your character? Picks them up? Punches them?)

Please manhandle my characters, it's very entertaining. And honestly, Fletch deserves it.


What are your limits in regards to romantic situations?

(What are you comfortable with and not comfortable with? Do you prefer to pre-plot relationships or let them happen organically? Are you open to IC-rejection or love-triangles? Age differences? Etc.)

I don't like to pre-plot anything, and this is no exception. I'm open to romantic situations happening organically with them, but both of my characters present one hell of an uphill battle where that's concerned. So...good luck?

No opinion on the rejection and love triangle stuff. Age differences: real-world rules apply for me. Nothing creepy.


What are your limits with regards to graphic content such as sex, violence, drug use, sexual assault, etc? What is your comfort level?

I'm completely comfortable with depictions of violence and drug use. I'm comfortable with mentions of sex, but I don't feel comfortable depicting it and I'd prefer a fade to black. I'm okay with mentions of sexual assault as long as there's a TW at the top. I will never be okay with overly graphic depictions of sexual assault.


What are your limits in regards to pregnancy within plots?
(Are you okay with pregnancy in plots? Miscarriages? Loss?)

No limits. None of that bothers me.


What about healing?
(For example, a blind character magically being able to see, a scarred up character having their scars repaired, etc.)

No limits. None of that bothers me.


What about characters being transformed against their will?
(Think vampires, werewolves, and magical spells.)

No limits. None of that bothers me.


Anything else?
(Anything else you want to add that other players should know!)

Please torture my characters. Make them angsty and uncomfortable. It's for science.

TW: Very brief mentions of child abuse, narcissistic abuse, slavery, flogging, sex workers, alcoholism, cancer


__________________QUICK STATS

Name Devlin Fletcher
Age 27
Gender Male
Species Human
Ethnicity Jenian - a desert people
Height 5'10"
Occupation
Officially: third mate aboard the merchant ship Mirabel.
Unofficially: a smuggler, a con artist, and a bounty hunter.

Residence The Mirabel at sea, and various whorehouses and dens of iniquity at port.


__________________IN-DEPTH STUFF

Physical Description
With a brown complexion, frizzy dreadlocked hair, and amber eyes, Fletch is a typical Jenian. Decades of sailing have made him lean and sinewy and have molded him into an agile climber. He sports numerous tattoos on his arms and legs and has countless whip scars across his back. Fletch feels compelled to look important, and he attempts to dress above his means. When ashore, he typically wears a deep red frock coat over a crisp shirt and trousers. But if one looks closely, one can spot the cracks in his shiny veneer. His boots and belt are scuffed. He reeks of cigarettes, whiskey, or both. His eyes are bloodshot and sunken. His face is unshaven more often than not. His hair won't smooth all the way down, and errant coils frame his face. In essence, Fletcher is a shabby imitation of how he wants to be seen.


Personality
ENFJ / chaotic neutral
On the surface, Fletch is swaggering, cocky, and oftentimes rude. A working-class sailor with a gritty accent to match, he frequently uses choice language and colorful metaphors to criticize the situation at hand. In spite of any first impressions he may give, Fletcher is actually quite observant and quickly picks up on a person's tells. He may not show it, but he is constantly sizing others up and keeping a running list of their faults, their desires, and what they can do for him. Fletch is selfish. When offering something to another (a cigarette, for instance), he is typically either working an angle, trying to manipulate or charm them into liking him, or, rarely, he is soothing his own guilt. In spite of this, he does have a conscience, but it's buried deep and he has to really, genuinely care for someone before it kicks in.


History
Fletch was born and raised in a dusty, festering, overcrowded port town on the arid south continent. He is the youngest brother and the middle child of five siblings. Between the chaos of a busy household and the cacophony of the bustling port, Fletcher quickly developed an affinity for noise, people, and city life. He also learned that, if he wanted to survive, he'd have to be tough, brutal, and cunning.

Devlin Fletcher's oldest brother, Alastair, was the golden child: destined from birth to follow in his father's footsteps and inherit captaincy and ownership of the family shipping business. Alastair also inherited the senior Fletcher's meanness and hunger for absolute control, and as the youngest boy, Devlin bore the brunt of that violence. At his father's command, his mother could do nothing beyond nursing his cuts and bruises, and so home was never safe. Roland, the second eldest, did his best to shield a young Fletch from abuse, but the damage done still scarred Dev over with layer upon layer of deep inadequacy and survival instinct. In short, Fletch's wounds healed into the shape of a narcissist: swaggering, conniving, and entirely self-serving.

Before long, he was old enough to work aboard his father's ship, but life there was just as harsh and demanding as it was back home. By age 16, he wanted out, and he deserted his father's company and found his way into the ranks of one of the myriad smuggling operations that ran contraband and slaves across the channel. For the first time, he experienced what it felt like to have others bend to his will, and he chased that high into the darkest depths of his lowest moment: he became his father. It was Roland who found him at port one year and pulled him back from the edge. Fletch resumed work aboard the Mirabel, but there was a pit in him where that thrill of control used to be, and he filled it with booze, smoke, and gambling. By his mid 20s, he'd destroyed his body and saw the beginning signs of a tumor rotting in his gut. By 27, it had spread to his lungs. He ignored the signs, and he still does, but Fletcher's time, it seems, is running short.

In the midst of a political upheaval, when faced with certain death, Fletch and Ven became unlikely allies. They traveled together for months in search of a way to stop the slow decay of their world. Along the way, they ran into two travelers from another realm: Lys, a formidable woman with the ability to wield a magic hitherto unknown, and Flavius, a weathered ship's captain. Circumstances became dire as the four fought their way through waves of Ven's own undead kin. In an act of desperation, Lys summoned a portal to escape back to her realm, but when Ven and Fletcher tumbled in after their friends, the magic faltered. Now, Fletch has found himself in another world entirely, and what's more, he can't remember anything about where he came from. He only knows that someone important to him is lost, and that he has to find him.


Magic/Abilities
He does this one cool magic trick where he gets you drunk and nicks your wallet.


Relationships
Fletcher cares about three people in his life: his mother, his brother Roland, and, though he would never admit it, Ven. To him, all others are expendable.


__________________THREAD TRACKER

Current Threads
No Rest for the Wicked [Visualspice] (M)

The Quest for the Celestial Aegis (@Nightcrawler)

Complete Threads

__________________QUICK STATS

Name Ven
Age 24-25 mentally (21 at time of death / body has been dead approx. 1000 years / had his soul returned to his body roughly 3-4 years ago)
Gender Male
Species Effectively a half elf
Height 6ft
Occupation Formerly a healer, now an agent of the goddess who reawoke him.
Residence None. He wanders.


__________________IN-DEPTH STUFF

Physical Description
Ven inherited the slight, delicate build of his mother's people, as well as their pallor and straight black hair. His dark eyes he inherited from his father. In his living years, his cheeks flushed at the sting of the cold northern wind or at even the slightest provocation. Under the curse that burdens his ancient body, his blood has long since turned to a viscous paste, and the whites of his eyes are now dusky. He still clings to many of his old hermit habits: he dresses primarily for function, as was the way of the people who raised him, and has little use for fashionable things (though he does admire them.) Because of his unsightly appearance, Ven wears a cloth mask and a cloak with a low hood when he anticipates passing through populated areas.


Personality
ISFP / neutral good
Though frightful in appearance, Ven is quite kind and polite. In conversation he is prone to wordiness and tangents, especially if he is asked about his people's culture or traditional herbal remedies. When working, he will talk or sing to himself in his native tongue. He often talks to animals as well: a habit he can't shake from living as a hermit on the outskirts of the clan village. He has a particular fondness for birds. Occasionally, he will tell very stupid jokes and is usually the only one to laugh at them.

In spite of his approachable nature, Ven will lie or clam up at the slightest inkling of a threat. He dances around subjects that make him uncomfortable or that awaken his shame, and he is only vaguely aware that he does so. He is prone to falling back on his self flagellation as a way to avoid actual accountability. When backed into a corner, Ven will almost always choose a balm to soothe his desire for redemption, even to the point of putting his own friends in danger. So, even though at first impression he is likable, one will discover that getting any closer than acquaintanceship is an exercise in pulling teeth, and can, in fact, be deadly.


History
Ven is the product of a runaway high priestess who, by a sheer stroke of luck, stumbled upon a human huntsman's camp as she wandered the wilderness. He was not five years old when her people found her, dragged her away, and murdered his father. His half brother, the huntsman's son, managed to hide him and save him from the same fate. They journeyed into the dark boreal forests and steep valleys that marked the territory of the northern clans. A young outcast northerner took them in and helped Ven survive the harsh winter, but Ven's half-brother didn't make it. When the northerner's banishment ended, Ven returned with him and became part of Bear Clan.

But being an outsider amongst a harsh and insular folk wasn't easy, and Ven longed to connect with his own blood. At the age of ten, he ran away, journeyed far to the south, and took up as an apprentice with an alchemist on the frontier. There were others who looked like him: products of trade between his mother's people and the human colonists from across the sea. Yet their culture was cruel and isolating, and no amount of luxury and civilization and fascinating discoveries could soothe those bruises. As the years wore on, he found that the closest thing to home was what he had left behind. Now 14, he journeyed back to Bear Clan and used his new-found knowledge to care for the people who had saved him.

Years later, devastation struck the westernmost clans. War fell upon them. From west across the mountains came agents of a wicked empire to abscond with their children in the black of night for some profane purpose. From the south, the colonists pushed further into the forest in search of gold. And from the east, their own human-allied clansmen turned against them. Ven found that he couldn't uphold his sensitive, pacifist nature and still protect his people and defend his homeland. He fought alongside them, and in secret, he discovered the purpose for the abductions: a magic so ancient and powerful that it granted a man the immortality of the gods themselves. And it was a magic that flowed not only in the veins of his mother's people, but in those of the northern clans, too.

With the blood of their enemies as a shield against death, the clans finally turned the tide, but the victory of Ven's revelation was short-lived and won at a steep cost. By cheating the very forces of nature, the people of the North awoke their wrathful god, and he rained devastation down upon them on the battlefield. In his rage he tore the very fabric of the world and doomed it to a slow, festering death. All but a few refugees perished that day, and those who died became the undead servants of a furious deity. It was not until a thousand years later that Ven's goddess, desperate to repair the hole in the world yet too weak to do so on her own, recalled his soul from the void beyond and brought consciousness back to his cursed and broken body.

A veritable scholar in life, Ven's thirst for knowledge remains a driving force even now. Though he would never admit it, his desire to comprehend the world around him has often pulled him from the path of wisdom. Indeed, his inner conflict tugs many ways. At his core, he, a bastard outsider, longs to belong to the tribe who raised him, and though they are a thousand years dead, he still fiercely holds their songs and traditions in his heart. He once surrendered to the dark temptation of forbidden knowledge, and that mistake has echoed through the history of his world and cloven countless bloody gashes in its wake. And so, too, he is driven by guilt and shame and a yearning for redemption, and with that yearning he has offered his puppet strings on a silver platter to his goddess.

In the midst of a political upheaval, when faced with certain death, Ven and Fletch became unlikely allies. They traveled together for months in search of a way to stop the slow decay of their world. Along the way, they ran into two travelers from another realm: Lys, a formidable woman with the ability to wield a magic hitherto unknown, and Flavius, a weathered ship's captain. Circumstances became dire as the four fought their way through waves of Ven's own undead kin. In an act of desperation, Lys summoned a portal to escape back to her realm, but when Ven and Fletcher tumbled in after their friends, the magic faltered. Now, Ven has found himself in another world entirely, and what's more, he can't remember where he came from. He only knows that someone important to him is lost, and that he must find him.


Magic/Abilities
Ven hails from a world where the only magic present is that of the gods. Whereas the blood magic he discovered granted rapid healing and temporarily staved off death, Ven's curse is a corruption of that power. He, and any others who died by the northern god's hand, are demonic creatures made with the sole purpose to harvest the life force of everything around them in order to sustain their master. Ven is no different: day in and day out, he must keep that incessant, gnawing hunger in check. If he doesn't, he risks losing control to the demon within him. Feeding on life force will kill his victim, be it plant, animal, or person. If interrupted before his target perishes, his feeding will hasten rot and disease and often causes old scars to bleed anew. If Ven feeds on plants and animals, it disgusts the demon within him but it keeps it in check. If he feeds on people, he experiences rapid healing, but the sensation of true satiety gives way to a thrilling high, and he becomes manic, impulsive, and quick to anger. He has the potential to chase that high and become addicted to it.


Relationships
In life, Ven's relationships were complicated. He held everyone at arm's length, including his older brother — the man who rescued him as a child. They often butted heads; Ven was, at his core, a pacifist idealist, while his brother was a pragmatist by necessity. In any relationship, Ven is most comfortable and familiar with being the smartest one in the room, and he struggles with knowing his value if he is not.

Thrown one thousand years beyond everything he knew, Ven is isolated and has few allies. He has recently found an unlikely friend in Devlin Fletcher, a street-smart smuggler who has, rather begrudgingly, helped him navigate a now unfamiliar world. Though they often bicker, Ven enjoys Fletch's company and takes comfort in the fact that they are both liars and, as Fletch puts it, "cock ups."


__________________THREAD TRACKER

Current Threads
Somewhere Far Beyond [Hyacinthus]

Skalds and Shadows [Gligar]

Where Mountains Rise [Nephero]


Complete Threads