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terminology.

mbrgrps./

seettt

wan

sdwee

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If you’ve stumbled upon us, we hope to entice you as a potential collaborator and future writing partner. Take your time to read through our site here and the main site which is linked above! Ask any and all questions, we respond daily. CONTENT Our story is riddled with themes of espionage, politics, crime, and war. House of Bullets is a spy-drama about an underworld of spies who are employed by a dangerous board of directors called The Black Curtain who run the world behind the world. I.S.O. ( International Special Operations ) is a private intelligence agency which has a rich and vast world and society built into it. Characters will struggle with real-world issues while navigating an entirely new world that hides in the shadows. JOINING We allow writers two different options in which they can join us. The first is by taking a posted wanted character. The second is by working one-on-one with an admin to create a new character from scratch. Whichever the writer prefers, both work equally well for us. The audition or application process is also quite different based on what we’ve seen here on the site. We prefer that the final step in the audition process for us is to write a thread with the writer who is auditioning to completion. Typically, our threads run anywhere between ten to twenty posts in total. Meaning each writer will likely post a total of five to ten times to complete a thread. This process allows us to put ourselves right in the fire while also contributing to the story overall. It is ultimately up to the admin to consider the topic canon to the main story or not. The purpose of this method is to expose the writer to the world, character and format right away. This allows us to ease people in while also contributing to the overall story, which most writers find to be encouraging. CHARACTER CREATION When it comes to character creation there are some things we look at more specifically than others. For example, what purpose does the character serve? Do they have a goal? We try to refrain from allowing characters in our world who don’t immediately have some sort of purpose, goal, or contribute to the story in some way. As you can see in our application / audition form, we tend to try to create full characters for this world. The characters must all have a strength, weakness, goal - as well as obstacles in front of them to prevent them from reaching this goal. The dynamic character approach just further adds fuel to the tension and high-stakes plots in the world. It also allows other writers to reach out and grab something to work with in order to build a plot, right away. STYLE + FORMAT + ACTIVITY Let’s see if we can’t make this simple. We write primarily para + multi-para. Our format is group-forum based and requires all members to partake in the overall story. The only thing that is considered canon is what’s in the forum. If we can’t read it, it didn’t happen. So, privately writing is allowed, but not considered canon to forum-based entries. Our activity standards are a minimum of two replies in the forum per week. We also require all members to have Discord and communicate thoroughly any reason that this standard cannot be met on a week to week basis. THEME + CONCEPT Our group story is told in a way that gives it a cinematic element. We like to think about our overall story as a movie franchise with several entries to tell a complete and whole story. This is why we employ a “seasonal event” sort of mechanic to how we progress our group plot. For the most part there will always be a Season Event happening in the group. However, there are ‘grace periods’ between Seasons in which writers are able to write free-form. This means, out of chronological order. During Seasonal Events all threads are typically within the timeline of the event.

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝, 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝. 𝙼𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢. 𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜. 𝚂𝚎𝚡 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙸'𝚖 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝. 𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚡𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐, 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕  𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝚂𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚗𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚍𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚎𝚝𝚌. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚜. 𝙸𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚒𝚘, 𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚝. 𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜.

I am seeking adopted parents and other family members for my 16-year-old werecheetah. She has no permanent home as of yet. She is a princess of a Werecheetah Coalition in Swahili. Though she is probably thought of as dead by whomever survived the war there. She will never know.  If you are interested in adopting her, message me and we can get a discussion going.  

I've decided to put some rules and or guidelines for interaction up because accidents just seem to keep happening more and more often with other role-players. So, PLEASE READ AND SIGN this before interacting with Wanda.  Firstly, real life is real life, roleplay is roleplay. PLEASE DON'T mix the two.   I WILL ONLY be writing with those who are at least 21 years of age. If I find out you are younger than 21, you will be removed.   WE ARE all from different Time-zones, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE respect your fellow writers’ writing schedule. For Time-zone purposes, I am on the West coast.  I am an adult with a full-time job, as well as a part-time volunteer job, which means replies WILL HAPPEN Tuesdays through Thursdays. If I have time, I may reply on Saturdays.    IC only please. OOC communications SHOULD BE limited to plot discussions and activity notices.  USE common sense. If Wanda is not interested in your character, PLEASE DO NOT force her into anything you wouldn't force on yourself or anyone else for that matter.  Communication and Consent ARE A MUST.  Busy, sick or whatever the case is, please leave word, NO ghosting me. Deletion is inevitable if you ghost me.  Please keep in mind that I WILL NOT answer to "hi" or "hey" or "how r u" or even small talk one-liners. Please introduce yourself and we can get a storyline going.   Mutes and Number hoarders WILL BE REMOVED within one month of their friend request being accepted. If you are too busy to send a simple plot idea after sending me a friend request, then you are far too busy to write with me.     NO OOC DRAMA. I do not want it; I do not need it and I do not care for it. I am here to roleplay, make connections, make friends and just write. If you come to me about any unnecessary drama, you will be deleted and blocked.   OPEN TO discussing ideas before writing, BUT FAVORS random starters.   99% Story and 1% Smut. My roleplays ARE PLOT-BASED, not porn-based.   I like people to write as LEGIBLE as they can, and we can go from there.    English is my primary language. IF English is not your first language, please let me know before roleplaying.   I AM mobile for replies, and I am on desktop for editing. If you see my 'online now' icon, it's probably lying to you because I keep the site pulled up on my phone during the week.   NOT a group forum friendly writer. I am mobile and cannot access it so while I understand it's how some write, unless you're willing to move to messages or comments then we won't have a storyline going.  MESSAGES ARE for roleplaying; Comments are for Intro’s.   I WILL ACCEPT 1-5 paragraphs to start our roleplay but nothing more than that.  I ONLY WRITE 1-3 paragraphs maximum. PLEASE keep in mind that not every reply takes a novella response.   Third person, past tense.     I AM NOT joining your RPG. NO GOD-MODDING. My character is mine; yours is yours.    NO sexually abusive type of roleplays of any kind.   USAGE of inappropriate gifs will get you deleted.   NO UNSOLICITED d*cks pics, thanks!    I am a Multi-shipper and this is a Multi-verse Account. EACH SHIP will exist in its OWN UNIVERSE. Shipping WILL NEVER be a priority. DO NOT like it? DON’T add me then.   My Muse is NOT GAY. WON'T BE changing this, accept it or move on.  DOES NOT ship with Vision romantically. (Ask to ship).  IS NOT Billy and Tommy's mother. (Ask to do).  I am Discord friendly upon request, but I will LIKELY be inclined to add you on discord if we have already interacted in some compacity.    If you ADD me on Discord, please tell me who you are.    

▎ VIOLENCE⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Violence is an old friend of Trinity. In her years under Draven’s enthralment, she estimates that she has killed several dozen individuals. It’s not a pleasure she indulges in; she thinks not about how she kills, only that she does to preserve her own life.▎ HAPPINESS ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Happiness is a rarity for her, but Trinity’s life is not completely devoid of joy; she tries finding cheer in the small things. In nature. Between the pages of a good book. In watching the world pass by as she soars on the back of Skyrend, up high in the clouds where her problems become insignificant, and she cares only about the feeling of the wind in her hair. These tiny comforts are sacred to her.▎ PAIN ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Trinity’s philosophy is simple: pain is a natural consequence of living, and proving your commitment to Talos involves embracing the suffering of existence. Should she face flames, she will welcome them with open arms, allowing them to consume her whole, her blood to boil, her flesh to sear and melt, as the fire purifies her, scours her clean. For her, rebirth is a raw, bloody ordeal.▎ LOVE ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Romance eludes Trinity, as her pact strictly prohibits her from entertaining any romantic pursuits unless instructed to or if they serve her patron’s interests. Yet another thing tainted by Draven; she conflates ‘love’ with the twisted obsession the lich has for her.▎ SEX ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ For Trinity, intimacy isn’t about enjoyment or an expression of love; it’s a service. Years of conditioning from Draven has reduced her image of herself to a commodity. She’s a blank slate of a person, her personality null, individuality nonexistent; what does she have to offer if not her body?▎ DEATH ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Once upon a time, Trinity feared death above all else. This fear persists, not for the brevity of life, but in the acknowledgment that death would mean surrendering herself to Draven’s every whim.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ That said — killing Trinity is difficult, bordering on impossible. Not the act of slaying her, but trying to ensure she remains dead afterward. Much like her patron, though she may fall, after a period of time, she’ll rise again if necessary precautions aren’t taken.▎ FAMILY ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Trinity cares little for her parents. Yet, a faint, almost imperceptible part clings to the hope that perhaps, somewhere, a mother is tirelessly searching for her lost daughter, and a father is wondering what became of his little girl.▎ FRIENDSHIP ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ In her lifetime, Trinity has cherished few friendships, often outliving or drifting apart from many. Amidst the flux, though, Skyrend — the wyvern she raised from hatchling to adult — has remained a steadfast companion. Skyrend is, to her, like a dog is to man.▎ CHILDHOOD ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Through centuries of living comes a century’s accumulation of memories. Because her childhood was some two-hundred years ago, her recollection of it is remarkably sparse. So few are her memories that she finds it easier to say she didn’t have one. The occasional glimpse flits into her mind — fleeting, fuzzy pictures of the ocean, the sand, and sunlight, or the indistinct face of a woman with dark coils of hair. She, however, dismisses these as insubstantial in the grander scheme of her life.▎ FOOD ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Trinity cannot stomach regular foods like produce or meat, and her diet consists purely of souls. How delicious.

▏pact & related info. ㅤㅤㅤDRAVEN came to Trinity while she was submerged in the frigid depths of the ocean – right as she was about to cross the threshold into the Fugue Plane. It was there he revealed his true nature as a millennia-old lich, and offered her a pact : eternal undeath, in exchange for her servitude.ㅤㅤㅤOh, how she longed to refuse him, for he planted a seed of resentment within her, a seed that sprouted into a rose of pure hatred, its thorns sharpened by years of unforgiving torment at the Weathermaster’s hands.ㅤㅤㅤBut beneath her loathing lay a fear — a fear born from the realization that her life had been snuffed out prematurely. She was only twenty; hardly an adolescent by elven standards, in her supposed prime by human reckoning.ㅤㅤㅤ Raised in isolation by the Thunderguard Order – an upbringing that Draven played a part in – her world had been one of unyielding rules and suffocating tradition, where the Stormwatch Citadel’s imposing stone walls served as both fortress and prison. From behind these barriers, she yearned to taste the exotic flavors of distant lands, to inhale the heady fragrance of blossoming flowers, and to witness the breathtaking spectacle of a sunset ablaze with hues of gold and crimson.ㅤㅤㅤ Yet, these simple pleasures, so readily savored by others, remained perpetually beyond her grasp. Thoughts of travel and exploration were passing fancies, her curiosity only mildly satiated by readings contained within the yellowed pages of ancient encyclopaedias; however, knowledge gleaned from these texts was colored by a narrow worldview and prejudices of the Church.ㅤㅤㅤ Now, here Draven stood, offering her not only a chance at survival but something greater – an eternity to explore, to unravel the mysteries of Faerûn and beyond. Yet, such freedom came at a steep price. Should she agree to the pact, she would be perpetually bound in service to the lich; forever his thrall, freed only by his death or at the eventual end of the realms.ㅤㅤㅤ Draven – countless centuries the half-elf's senior – had always held sway over her. He possessed an intimate understanding of her being : mind, body, and soul. She was, unquestionably, his most meticulously fashioned creation, the pinnacle of his dark artistry. From the cradle to the grave and long after, he controls her; he was ingrained within her, an integral part of her being, as vital to her continued existence as any organ. Persuading Trinity to agree to the pact — despite her initial reluctance — proved as effortless as the times he deceived her into regarding his abuse as a sacred duty to Talos.ㅤㅤㅤ And so, a Faustian bargain was struck between the two. From the depths Trinity would surface, resurrected as a dhampir – a creature poised between the worlds of the living and the dead.ㅤㅤㅤ The Stormwatch Citadel ran red with the blood of the clergy, once under Draven’s command but now marked for slaughter by Trinity’s hand at the lich’s word. His second demand was for her to surrender her body to a harrowing surgery; her chest opened, once-beating heart removed, replaced with a cold, mechanical substitute. It was an artifical heart that Draven assured her was the most effective means of preserving her life without need for constant magical intervention. Unbeknownst to her, Draven had embedded part of his fragmented phylactery within her new heart. This inclusion ensured that Draven’s near-invulnerability, for even if the other fragments of his phylactery were destroyed, he would always have Trinity as a failsafe.▏concerning being “partially undead” ㅤㅤㅤ As stipulated in their contract, Trinity was bound to secrecy, compelled to conceal not only their pact but also her undead nature from outsiders. This included not just maintaining silence but also hiding any physical abnormalities that might betray her true nature as more than a mere half-elf. During her transformation, Trinity had developed fangs – a trait common among dhampirs and their vampire cousins – and she took it upon herself to wear down these newly elongated canines. With rudimentary tools scavenged from her surroundings – a rough-hewn stone, a sliver of metal – she painstakingly whittled away at the sharp protrusions, enduring the searing discomfort it brought. For to breach her pact would invite consequences far more agonizing.ㅤㅤㅤ Try as she may to appear “normal,” there are certain parts of dhampirism that cannot be ignored; one such aspect is their insaitable hunger. All dhampirs are tormented by cravings, whether it be for blood, flesh, or otherwise. Temptation haunts them, and every one knows a thirst slaked only by the living.ㅤㅤㅤ Trinity sustains herself on the vitality of others, their life essence. Her stunted fangs are blunt, and incapable of breaking skin, therefore she resorts to using magic to siphon the life force of her victims.ㅤㅤㅤ Feeding is a grim necessity to her survival, one Trintiy abhors. In an attempt to assuage her guilt, she is selective with her prey, deliberately targeting animals or the remains of deceased humans / creatures whose souls have not fully detached from their host. Trinity labels these meals as “ethically sourced” as a way to rationalize her actions and find some semblance of moral justification. In her eyes, it is a small mercy to spare intelligent beings from the hunger that plagues her. Deep down, however, the view of herself as a glutton through and through, gorging herself on something not rightfully hers, persists.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ABOVE, the sun hangs in an azure sky, its brilliance bathing the earth in a golden glow. Along a wide dirt path that cuts through a stretch of rolling hills and fields of lush green grass like a weathered scar walks a mighty clydesdale. Atop its broad back sits a young woman, none other than Adelaide, the crown princess of Inuzar. Her hair dances in the breeze, the dark tresses that fell loose from her neat braid swept up in the wind’s playful caress, tickling her cheeks. Tucking an errant strand behind her ear, Adelaide straightens her posture, light eyes flitting to the male beside her: Ser Erik, her retainer. Or, he used to be, before he, along with Zakn’rae and Loa, fled Inuzar, after a kingdom wide manhunt had been unleashed upon them, who the people thought killed their beloved king – Adelaide’s father. He gripped the mare’s reins in a closed fist, tawny eyes fixed toward the distant horizon, looking for danger. At his nape sits a haphazardly tied bun and he absently scratches at the stubble that covers his lower face in patches, evidence of days spent on the road, where he was deprived the luxury of a proper shave.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Behind him, to Adelaide’s right and left, were the drow Zakn’rae and aasimar Loa, respectively. Where Zakn’rae’s lithe form lacked bulk, Loa’s sturdy build more than compensated; similarly, Zakn’rae stood a few inches taller than the avian-like woman. Pale feathers extend from Loa’s cheekbones to her hairline, their blending into the cascade of fair hair that was meticulously braided to keep its fine strands from crowding her slim face. Her eyes were dark, a deep umber that consumed nearly her whole sclera, while Zakn’rae’s were a pleasant shade of red, shimmering like two polished rubies.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“I don’t think my legs can carry me any further,” a shrill voice complains. Loa’s head pivots like an owl, turning toward the tiny figure buzzing around them like a bothersome mosquito.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Pressing a hand to her forehead, the pixie feigned exhaustion, gracefully collapsing onto the shoulder of Trinity, the warlock who flanked the group. “If I endure another moment under this scorching sun, I fear I may succumb to its heat,” she declared dramatically.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ A derisive snort blows from Loa’s nostrils. “You haven’t taken so much as a single step we embarked this morning,” the paladin corrects. “And even if your wings grew weary, you could easily rest on Trin; in fact, it seems you’ve made quite the habit of nesting in her cowl throughout our journey.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Sweet Loa, are you not bound by your duty to aid the distressed?” Thallia gasped in mock shock. “Have you forsaken your oath?”Lips forming a thin line, Loa retorts, “My oath is the one thing keeping me from squishing you like the irritating pest you are. Consider yourself lucky, little pixie.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ “Ah, but imagine: defeating such a fearsome foe would undoubtedly elevate you to unimaginable glory,” teases Thallia, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’d be hailed as a hero of legendary status, perhaps even rivalling the renown of Piergeiron Paladinson!”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“She would surely be my saviour,” Zakn’rae interjects, his voice cutting through the air like the dagger at his hip, causing Thallia to whip her head around so swiftly that Trinity swears she hears the miniature bones in the pixie’s neck crack. “Rescuing me from the torment of enduring your ear-bleeding voice and ceaseless complaints? By the Hells — I would worship her as a goddess, for that would be a blessing surpassing anything the divine have ever gifted me.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Thallia bristles. “Silence, male,” a demand barked in an authoritative tone.Trinity doesn’t bother suppressing the snicker that escapes her nor does she try hiding how her lips lift into an amused smile. “Your ears — as sharp as they are — simply aren’t refined enough to appreciate the dulcet tones of my voice. It’s a shame, really,” the pixie adds.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“I beg to differ,” the white-haired drow remarked with a smug tilt of his head.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“You ‘begging to differ’ implies there’s something to differ about,” she challenged. “You can’t differ facts.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Facts?” Zakn’rae arched a sceptical brow.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Yes, facts," Thallia asserts firmly.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Can you two cease with your bickering?” Hisses Erik, who the party had seemed to have forgotten was present.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ A hush falls over the party. The wind stops, the earth holds its breath. Erik pauses, too, as the mare he was pulling along comes to an abrupt stop in the middle of the road, her nostrils flaring as she emits a series of short, harsh blows that leave the knight bewildered. Her ears perk up, her eyes widen, and her muscles tense. Equally as confused as Erik, Adelaide strokes the frightened mare’s head, her own fear constricted in her throat. She scans the plains, finding nothing but empty space, stretching as far as the eye can see. And yet, the absence of an obvious threat was somehow more unsettling than a horde of orcs charging toward them. A gentle squeeze of her calves pressing into the sides of the mare’s belly signals that the princess wants her to move forward, but she baulks, completely petrified. Even a firm tug at her reins from Erik fails to coax the horse into movement.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Erik’s gaze lifted, eyes squinting against the blinding glare of the sun as he watches the skies. Amidst the sea of blue stretches a dark silhouette, wings spread wide. Initially no more than a distant speck, it steadily grew larger, hurtling towards them with alarming speed. As the shape gradually takes form, Erik’s heart plummets to his stomach, face blanching as a look of recognition flickers through his eyes. A dragon. He blinks once, twice. A dragon was coming toward them, drawing nearer with each powerful flap of its wings.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Zakn’rae notices it, too. “Is that a f***ing dragon—”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Yes, run!” Erik bellows, his voice harsh as he swiftly helps Adelaide dismount. With a firm grip on her wrist, he guides her and the few who heed his urgent call downhill, towards the safety of a nearby embankment. There, they would, at the very least, be out of the dragon’s direct line of sight.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ As Zakn’rae sprinted past the knight in a lavender blur, Thallia darted alongside him, a streak of motion. Yet, Trinity remained motionless, the only one to not follow Erik’s lead. Her sudden stop causes Loa’s steps to falter; despite maintaining pace with the group, the aasimar hesitates.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Loa moves to backtrack and retrieve Trinity, but Erik’s strong hand closes around her arm.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Leave her! If Trinity wants to court death, then let her,” the scarred man barks, dragging her down to safety with the rest of the group.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ The air thrums as the beast breaks through the clouds, its colossal wings stirring up strong winds that whip the grass into a frenzy, rippling like waves on the sea. It touches land with a thud that causes the earth to quiver beneath it, tucking its wings close to its sides.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Minutes pass, a thick silence permeating the air, devoid of the screams Erik anticipated hearing. Gesturing for the others to remain low, he slowly ascends the hill, shimmying up through the grass flat on his stomach, forearms digging into the dirt and pulling him forward. Peering over the top, he catches a glimpse of Trinity’s body — surprisingly in one piece — standing before the creature. Her fingers are curled around the reins of Adelaide’s steed, who notices Erik and casts him a weary glance, a silent plea for help.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Thric, wux shilta ti sone coi,” seethes Trinity, her scolding directed toward the brass-coloured beast. Erik vaguely recognises the language as Draconic, with its guttural sound and hissed syllables.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Is she chastising a dragon?⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ This woman is utterly insane. Absolutely batsh*t crazy.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“The way she handles herself with such confidence, staring death right in the face and not wavering in the slightest...” Zakn’rae, in typical rogue fashion, had snuck up to Erik’s side, and eyes the half-elf with poorly hidden admiration.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Erik could scarcely believe what he is having the displeasure of hearing. Daydreaming while there’s a dragon only a few paces away from you? A monster that could burn him to a crisp faster than he can say ‘oh sh*t.’⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ With a scrunch of his nose, Erik’s face contorts in revulsion, and he delivers a resounding blow with a closed fist to the drow’s head. A string of curses falls from Zakn’rae lips, hands clutching his skull as he bites back a hiss of pain. His voice is not lost on the dragon’s keen ears — or rather, the small holes on the sides of its head through which it listens to the world.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Swallowing thickly, Erik remains stationary as the beast pivots, stalking toward them with a lumbering gait, barbed tail raised. Its hulking form casts a long shadow over the hillside, beady, black eyes boring into the two men; a wild look that suggests it surely intends to gorge itself on them. A shriek from Zakn’rae nearly provokes the dragon — which, now having a closer look at it, Erik realises is a wyvern — into attacking. Had it not been for Trinity’s intervention, a sharp shout of “Skyrend!” from her mouth, drow, a delicacy of the Underdark, would have been on the menu today.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Sune, ti wistu,” she runs a hand over the wyvern’s — Skyrend, Erik guesses — broad snout. A low rumble vibrates in Skyrend’s throat and it noses Trinity’s hand in an affectionate manner that belies a lesser dragon’s infamously aggressive nature.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“By Helm, Trinity, what are you doing?!” Erik throws his hands up in the air, gesticulating wildly. “That is a wyvern!”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Yes, that much is obvious,” the warlock replies coolly. She, like usual, is nonchalant, unbothered by the fact that beside her stands a beast that, if it wanted, could gobble her up whole, no chewing necessary.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“That thing has the strength to tear you limb from limb, and yet you’re petting it like… some dog?”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“That thing is named Skyrend,” she informs him.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Erik stares at her incredulously. “Skyrend? You’re on a first-name basis with a wyvern now?”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Trinity nods. “Skyrend means no harm; its merely misunderstood.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“Misunderstood?! What of the hundreds — no, thousands — that have fallen to a wyvern’s wrath?”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“I could say the same of man,” Trinity answers, tone steady. “Humans bear the weight of countless atrocities — bloodshed not just of animals, but of their own kin as well. Yet I don’t label all of mankind as ‘savages’ based on the actions of a few.”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Erik shakes his head in disbelief. “Comparing humans to beasts? You’ve truly lost your mind,” he growls, his frustration evident in his voice. “You can’t reason with a wild creature like that. It’s dangerous, plain and simple. Humans have conscience, morality—”⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀“As does Skyrend,” Trinity interrupts. “You claim I can’t reason with a feral creature like it, but Skyrend has been my companion longer than you’ve been alive. It's not an enemy, I assure you. At the very least, give it a chance to prove itself.”TRANSLATIONS : Thric, wux shilta ti sone coi. — No, you cannot eat it [the horse].Sune, ti wistu. — Friend, not enemy.

ㅤㅤㅤTrinity had long since resigned herself to the undeniable fact that she was forever bound to Draven; she was eternally his, until death did them part. But even death would not free her. Were she to perish, he would resurrect her. Another number in his undead horde; however, she was special to him. In his twisted mind – ailed by a sickness that’s festered over centuries of undeath – Draven was convinced she was his darling Gisella come back to him. And Trinity understood all too well that he wouldn't release his beloved this time. Maybe he would bestow upon her the curse of consciousness, or he would lavish her with special treatment, as he always had. And perhaps, among those capable of such feelings, envy would simmer like it did among the clergy years ago. After all, she was his ‘favourite.’ They did not know ‘favourite’ was a way of saying ‘his most valued possession.’ In the lifetime and unlife that she has spent under his thumb, she learned that he regarded her not as a person, but as an object : a pretty thing to ogle, to push around and touch as he wanted. Being his ‘favourite’ did shield her from his wrath, or spare her from beatings; it didn’t grant her any more influence over the men she referred to as ‘brothers.’ He paid her objections no heed, much like he disregarded their attempts to curry favour through flattery.ㅤㅤㅤFreedom only came with Draven’s death, his utter annihilation, his complete erasure from the realms. Killing a lich required destroying its phylactery that tethers its corporeal form to the Material Plane with it. Fail to do so and the lich will be reformed within a tenday. Draven was a clever one, having broken his phylactery into three shards that he then hid in the hard - to - reach corners of Faerûn.ㅤㅤㅤOne fragment was with Trinity’s father, the exiled protégé of House Meliscient, Kiirion. He fled north, to the quadruplet peaks at the Spine of the World where the sky and snow became indistinguishable. The bitter chill and unforgiving terrain of the tundra stood in stark contrast to the temperate shores of Evermeet, yet Kiirion was prepared to adapt. Stories of dragons veiled as clouds and formidable barbarian tribes that lived along the Wall, deterred any pursuit of him, granting him uninterrupted solitude for the past one - hundred and twenty years.ㅤㅤㅤAnother shard of the lich’s phylactery lay hidden within the blighted marshes of the Mere of Dead Men, concealed amidst the hoard of the dracolich Xylbesdi. It was Draven who orchestrated Xylbesdi’s transformation into undeath, only to later seize control of the dracolich and pilfer its own phylactery. Shielded from prying eyes by powerful illusions and safeguarded by intricate magical wards, the dracolich’s home is an impregnable fortress even seasoned adventurers cower from exploring.ㅤㅤㅤWithin Trinity beats the third shard, powering her mechanical heart, the pulsating core that sustains her existence. Removing the fragment would bring the artificial organ to a standstill, so. . .ㅤㅤㅤ“So, to slay Draven, you have to die?” Zakn’rae’s furrowed brow betrayed his troubled thoughts as deftly twirls an ornate dagger between his practised fingers. He angled the blade toward Trinity’s chest, its pointed tip hovering perilously close to where her heart beat with hesitant anticipation.ㅤㅤㅤThe half - elf was never the type to hide the truth in pleasant falsehoods, answering the with a firm “Yes.” Her gaze funnels to the dagger’s honed edge, throat bobbing as she swallows the knot of unease that threatened to choke her, stifling her dread.ㅤㅤㅤFace betraying no emotion, Zakn’rae offers a slow nod in reply, and wordlessly presses the dagger into Trinity’s hand, a silent agreement sealed between them in steel. Her slender digits tighten around the hilt and she observes her warped reflection in its polished metal.ㅤㅤㅤOver the course of her travels alongside Zakn’rae and their companions – stalwart Loa, valiant Erik, and ever faithful Thallia – Trinity, like to a raven collecting shiny baubles, had gathered a trove of mementos : a white peppered feather plucked from Loa’s noble brow; a silver coin, minted in the kingdom Adelaide was meant to rule, a kingdom now darkened by a pall of uncertainty and upheaval; and a dried flower taken from the Aerwood Glade, its petals still faintly fragrant, tenderly preserved between the yellowed pages of her weathered journall. . . Several meaningless items that hold little sentimental value to the average person, but were to her tangible memories that, when arranged together, created a recollection of their time together.ㅤㅤㅤIt’s been a little over a year since she first met them. To one for whom time holds no sway, such a span might seem infinitesimally brief; but, she lived more than one year than she had in one - hundred fifty years spent under Draven’s enthrallment. The closer they came to confronting Draven, the clearer the true essence of living became to her; life’s beauty lay not in its longevity, but in its intensity. Every laugh shared, every tear shed, every heartbeat counted – these were the currency of being. Trinity couldn't deny feeling disappointed by the modest sum she had amassed over her lifetime, especially considering how many others she had outlived. She, however, was grateful for whatever amount she had, whether it was one, a thousand, or even a million.ㅤㅤㅤPart of her yearned for just a little more time, perhaps another year, to neatly tie up the loose ends she knew she would leave behind. Yet, such mercy was not granted. With the end looming ever closer, Trinity knew there would be words left unsaid, conversations unhad, and embraces left unfelt. She refused to burden her companions with any more sorrow than absolutely necessary. Some secrets, she resolved, would accompany her to the grave, all in the name of sparing them further pain. Sacrifices had to be made. If her death meant freeing the tormented souls, like her, ensnared by Draven’s cruelty and saving others from his malevolence, then she would meet death willingly. For she had grown to value their happiness above her own, ready to set aside her wants for the greater good.ㅤㅤㅤThe floorboard protests with a soft creak under the pressure of her boot as she strides across the room, closing the distance between herself and Zakn’rae, who stands poised by the window, his gaze fixed upon the starry expanse above. Silvery eyes mirror the twinkling diamonds strewn across the night sky, slivers of moonlight filter through the emerald foliage, dabbling the forest floor with specks of muted ivory.ㅤㅤㅤ“I have one request – a dying wish if you will,” though her tone is hard, it’s easy to tell her words are a poorly masked plea. “When I’m dead and buried, do not let me be remembered as a tragedy.” 

[ CONTEXT : The party stopped in Waterdeep on their way to the Ardeep Forest to stock up on supplies before continuing their search for the Aerwood Glade. Trinity was recognized by a Harper agent who had once worked with her mother, Buchra, a former Master Harper. The agent took Trinity to Buchra’s former lodging. Loa, Trinity, and Thallia decided to investigate the room to see if they could find any valuable gear, but instead uncovered a dark secret that led to Buchra coming out of retirement and ultimately led to her demise. A prequel to this piece. ]ㅤㅤㅤ Shafts of sunlight filter in through tall windows, with heavy curtains billowing gently in the breeze. The windows needed dusting, with motes of dust dancing lazily in the air, captured in the streams of light as they floated on invisible currents. Two figures entered through an aged door, its hinges protesting being opened after years untouched, the aged floorboards groaning beneath the weight of their footsteps — Loa's hurried and excited, Trinity's slow and uncertain.ㅤㅤㅤIn one corner of the room loomed a towering bookcase, its shelves packed with a collection of well-loved leather-bound tomes, their spines worn from consistent use. Against the opposite wall stood a sturdy oak desk, its surface cluttered with faded parchment. A jar of dried ink sat at the far edge, with an upright quill poised within, undisturbed still even years later. Along another wall stood a grand four-poster bed, draped in faded linens, their colors dulled by years of exposure to the elements. Loa gravitated towards a sizable wardrobe nestled against the westernmost wall, while Trinity remained in the room's center, her eyes captivated by the intricate embroidery of the threadbare rug beneath her boots.ㅤㅤㅤThe salty tang of the sea hung in the air, mingling with the faint whisper of brine carried on the breeze that tousled Trinity's cowl, teasing her hair. She tucks an errant curl back into place, and her attention briefly flickers to Loa, who is engrossed in searching through the wardrobe. Unearthing a trove of worldly trinkets and small treasures, the aasimar's turquoise gaze is bright with fascination as she pulls an old instrument from a hidden corner of the armoire. It bears a resemblance to a lute, with a long body and strings stretched taut across its frame, but there is something distinctly different about it, something that sets it apart.ㅤㅤㅤ"Trinity, come, you must see this," Loa beckons the other woman toward her with a quick nod of her head. She presents the unique instrument to Trinity as she approaches, giving its strings a tentative pluck. A warm note plays and the blonde wonders aloud, "I wonder what manner of imaginative luthier crafted such an oddly... shaped lute."ㅤㅤㅤBefore Trinity can voice her thoughts, a tiny figure flits into the room, hovering near her shoulder. "That's not a lute, dear," Thallia chimed in, her wings fluttering iridescently in the sunlight. "That is a kora. Commonly played by bards from the Vilhon Reach – a way ways from here."ㅤㅤㅤ"Oh," a small, surprised noise escapes the aasimar, who gives the kora a second look over. "Do you s'pose that means your mother may be Vilhonese, Trin?"ㅤㅤㅤ"A native of Turmish or Chondath, maybe," Trinity muses. The indifference in her tone suggests her thoughts were elsewhere as she had drifted from the small gathering of girls in favour of purusing the papers left behind on the desk. Her mother's desk. Late mother's desk.ㅤㅤㅤTrinity had never given much thought to her mother; the thought of her never stirred much emotion within her. She had grown accustomed to her absence, familiar with the void that maternal love should occupy; however, speaking of her in the past tense caused a pang, a fleeting stab of ache to her heart, leaving a tender hollow in its wake.ㅤㅤㅤIn another life, perhaps, she would have had the chance to know her — the Buchra beyond who chroniclers wrote of. To know her not as a figure of myth and legend, a conqueror of both land and sea, but as her mother, her flesh and blood. Not a single word had she shared with the woman, but Trinity mourned the loss of her. It was a loss not just of the woman her mother was, but of the future they could have shared together, had Draven not stolen it from her.ㅤㅤㅤHer fingers glided over the scratched surface of the abandoned desk, sifting through the scattered parchment left behind by Buchra, until they brushed against the rough texture of tanned hide beneath the pads of her gloved digits. Eyeing the journal, the warlock lifted it with care, sliding her hand beneath the cover and gently nudging it open. The yellowed pages carried the faint perfume of ink, and she absentmindedly thumbed their moth-eaten edges as she turned through entries scrawled in heavy-handed strokes.ㅤㅤㅤBuchra was no poet – her writing was absent of any embellishments or flowery prose – but she was thorough. Though Loa said something, her teasing voice became a static buzz in Trinity's ears as she was completely absorbed in her mother's world. She found herself swept up in tales of adventure and daring escapades, broken up by the occasional draft of a song or rushed sketch, poorly rendered with charcoal. As the remaining pages dwindled, Trinity's pace slowed, her gaze lingered on a particular passage containing the beginnings of a song. Incomplete, like many others in the book, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that this one was not meant to be left unfinished.ㅤㅤㅤ "Through tempests fierce and tranquil morn,in mirth and woe – my love for thou, my precious, shall everlast. . .Stride forth, dear one, with head held high,know in thy soul, I'm by thy side. . ." ㅤㅤㅤThe gentle caress of Loa's taloned thumb left a tingling sensation on Trinity's skin, drawing her out of her reverie. She's met with Loa's round eyes, her own gaze unfocused from tears she hadn't realized had fallen. Trinity pivots on her heel, her back now turned to the paladin and Loa casts Trinity an apologetic glance, taking several steps back, observing silently as the half-elf clenches the journal tightly.ㅤㅤㅤA soft sniffle escapes her, prompting Loa to gently inquire, "Are you alright?"ㅤㅤㅤCollecting herself, Trinity steadied her breath and blinked away any lingering moisture that gathered in her waterline, nodding curtly in response. Thallia and Loa exchange an uncertain glance, with the former offering a shrug while the latter's lips wilt into a frown. Trinity's tumult is forgotten with the turn of a page, dog-eared and left for later review. The next few entries unfold abruptly, with mentions of a man named 'Kiirion' littered throughout. Ample context clues provided Trinity clarity regarding Buchra's relationship to this Kiirion. Short descriptions evoke imagery of a dark-skinned man with pointed ears, chiseled cheeks, and a forked tongue. He is depicted as a liar, a serpent who cruelly tore her daughter away, pretending she would have a better life among the more civilised folk of Everska - the 'folk' being elves like himself. But he and Trinity never reached Everska. There was no sanctuary as promised, only the grim reality of a man who had dallied with forbidden magic — a practice his own kind had warned him against for years. A man who was acting on the whims of a lich, a man who traded their child for his own freedom; a betrayal that cut deeper than any blade. Sketches accompanied the terse entries, depicting a gemstone with dark, angry lines of ink carved through it, severing it into three distinct fragments. The earlier reference to a lich was no coincidence; this drawing is of Draven's phylactery.ㅤㅤㅤHer stomach plummets, twisting in knots, as she fights back the bile rising in her throat. Images of her hand stained crimson with the warmth of blood and the heady, metallic scent of it permeating the air thrust themselves to the forefront of Trinity's mind. Trembling arms encircled her waist, drawing her close in a feeble embrace. The insertion of her dagger into the woman's back was quick and merciful. A sputtering breath escaped her victim, her eyes fluttered shut, and her figure slackened against hers. In the haze of that moment, the inexplicable emptiness that filled Trinity as she cradled Buchra's lifeless form made no sense, as if she was trying to decode a cipher written in a foreign tongue. But now, with the cruel clarity of hindsight, the truth revealed itself – that embrace was the first and final time she held her mother close.  ㅤ