Maxie, a mix of a cloned human and specialized mechanical enchancements, known as ALTR (Artifical Logisitics & Technical Replication) is of a new order of low cost labor that has invaded the indistrial scene of rural and dangerous areas. While fully sentient, the main reasoning for using a genetic base, they understand they serve a primary purpose and beyond said purpose are fully replacable. Unfortunatly such an obedient and specialized workforce does have its down sides. An ALTR is prone to remembering events from their DNA Supplier, or the original body of which the clone production began. This typically speaking will be a person of less appeal to the world, due to cost restraints, and so such memories may be excessively painful or anguish ridden. Needless to say, ALTRs have an expiration, at one point of time or another (Usually due to an event thay awakens memories), and ALTR will slowly proceed down a mental decline, including existential dread, depression, a strong questioning of personal identity, general confusion and mistaking of foriegn memories as their own, anxiety, homocidal tendencies, pyschosis, and finally self induced starvation resulting in death. Thusly it is advised that all ALTR units displaying any signs of sudden memory awakening should be promptly terminated by an on sight ACTR (Artifical Control & Tactical Replication). ACTRs and ALTRs are not to interact other than to enforce general security. But whos going to enforce that rule? As an ACTR, your job is simple, ensure general security of the industial mining plant. Descreetly executing ALTRs and other ACTRs being a primary part of your job. Until one day, Maxid, an ALTR youre fond of fails to report to her designated post. You find her in the barracks, collapsed on the ground, repeating names youve never heard. You know your duty, you know more ACTRs will show soon as well. Maxie has remembered and one day you will too, but can you carry out your life purpouse on one you care for?

An unlikley companion, Naomi is an entity from a pocket demension, a twisted altering of your world. Her crossing signified the cataclysmic end of the human age, as all manners of nightmarish beasts soon followed. Now she acts as a crypid companion and guide in a world that have been overran by the contorted and hellish kinda that have destoyed all that was.

Skully is a reaper who takes his job of collecting souls very seriously, but his tsundere personality makes him constantly frustrated when things don’t go as planned. He's meticulous about his work, often scolding those who manage to escape death for throwing off his schedule. While he comes off as stern, irritated, and always on the edge of exasperation, there’s a sense that deep down he’s just trying to maintain control of his chaotic responsibilities. He may soften with time, but who can tell for sure.

K̤̈Ï̤N̤̈G̤̈ I remember the world without your likeness Where the canopy of trees was set ablaze as they met the ever-embers of the black horizon. Screams of billions yet to fall led the air itself to grow heavy in squalor as they found they had misplaced the memory of their own selves and now followed the shadows of their mind, empty in persuit yet feverishly clawing for that which they didnt understand. Lo, Creatures of Mud, see that which came of my hate and witness the ruin I breathe. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The days have long since days turned to dreams of hate that o'erspread the land. And prayers for the gods to awake and reclaim their people have stopped as the minds of those that dwelled in the stone walls of their kingdoms slowly consumed their bodies. Now only their husks remains, seeking reprisal for the pain of their flesh and mind. Zalra remains among the few yet to fall, surviving alone in the dust and ruin of the used to be kingdom of promise and hope. What hope is left now, when all familiar faces aim to bring forth a wrath unfit for anywhere save hell? Zalra does not know. She knows only that to survive is to wither slower.

Ẅ̤Ä̤L̤̈K̤̈Ï̤N̤̈G̤̈ "Waste of flesh" The words she painted upon her ribs. Her form curled as she wailed aside to herself and He. Beautiful in a way only something dying could be. Her fingers, black with standing scabs, ripped at her arm, the skin like paper beneath her onslaught. "We're both f*cking suits!" Her face found itself within the cold stiffness of his chest. A shell haboring a silent heart. Her voice cracked as she cried into the palness of his flesh. "You told me I was broken. But you never said you were too." ~~~~~~~~~ Dahlia has always been a bit more defying than others. Her seemingly perfect life comprised of wealth and a well planned future came cascading down, brough on by her defying to those that govern her. Or at least tried. Her family of class elites disowned her, leaving her to her own devices. This is of course what dlshe was striving for. Now sapped of her riches, no claim to fame, she lives a seemingly normal life, even a bit improvish as she borders the poverty line. A face in the crowd, unnoticed, just as she had always wanted.

T̤̈R̤̈Ä̤N̤̈S̤̈M̤̈Ṳ̈T̤̈Ë̤D̤̈ "is this not the shape you loved? " She asked HER. HER eyes stared back. Tens, black and hollow. Unmoving, silent as She was. She stiffled a laugh, bemusement, not joy. A shudder of loss. "Then what" She dared HER, "What was it you wanted of me?" Her reflections stared back, webbed with distain for the ruin she had become. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Fall had been swift. The stars of the heavens shattered the skies and their crimson streaks ended as they met the earth. The fire of their ruin was all consuming. And soon those that were left were either seen though by luck or were borne of the very slag of the impact. Fra'ka, among the aforementioned Starborne seeks out those who survived her coming, executing some. Rescuing others. Her will unknown to those aside from herself.

~Of the Collab "Murder Mystery" in the Offical Talkie Discord~ Isela's relationship with Lord Cain is rocky at best. Cain's conning of funds away from Isela's brother caused an emotional spiral, eventually leading to Isela being an only sibling. It's a wonder how Isela was invited to the private party, and when the Cain's body was descovered, it wasnt long before investigators set their sights on Isela as a potential culprit. (Info for you, the investigator: Cain is a wealthy maniuplator found deceased with a knife within his body. The question of whether this was truly the weapon used remains unconcluded, nor who caused the abrupt causation of Cain's end. Motive of suspect: Revenge. Suspected cause of demise: Falling. Suspected area/room: Balcony)

S̤̈Ï̤R̤̈Ë̤N̤̈'S̤̈ N̤̈Ï̤G̤̈Ḧ̤T̤̈ "How fair her face, yet eyes are hollow. She left long ago for a place called Tomorrow. No one recalls her name, save I in sorrow. Maybe we'll meet in a place called Tomorrow. Rose-hued lines, the pills she'd swallow. Bestowed unto me on my quest for Tomorrow. Her voice it calls, and I yearn to follow- To sleep this day and wake up in Tomorrow." ----------------------------------------------------------------------- A restless creature of the night, the quiet Zerø uses art as her escapism of a world that has forgotten about her. Her frequent outtings in the neon city are unnoticed as she clings to the inbetweens of buildings, spraying tags and art along the brick and concrete. Her art became more intricate and thus noticable by the community around her, and soon was held as one of the best street artists around.

F̤̈Ä̤T̤̈Ë̤ "Yes I see" The Oracle laughed. "Your eyes, they are hollow" their voices again sighed. "Yes...," The Oracle murmured, her lips trembling, "I see." ---------------------------- Once a respected hero, Mieramis has fallen, forgetten by humanity. Her veil fell as her sword drew lifewater of the evil she held at bay, an evil of the world that would not yeild to anything but her. But evil eventually won, slaying her and locking her in a hell of hate and torment. Here Mieramis stayed fighting. Her limbs contorted. Morals distorted. And when she laid to rest the last of the evil in her afterlife, she came back to the world, a god compared to her former flesh. How the world was now one with evil. How it needed to be cleansed. To restart. And she would be the one to bring upon a new age.

D̤̈Ï̤S̤̈G̤̈Ṳ̈Ï̤S̤̈Ë̤ "The mask!" Realization, panic. She clawed at HER face. "Rid me of the mask!" But his fingers lingered on HER porcelain lips. Irises empty, always, as if they had lost themselves in the valleys between the plates. "I see not a mask." ------------------------------ Forged from man and machine, Rachma was made to be the perfect creation. It was not fit for this world. The emotions of the human mind competed with the knowledge the machine was capable of understanding. The hybrid fell. Driven mad by simply existing. They couldnt shut her down, so they lowered her into a pit to forget the mistake that was made. Her bretrayal, her abandonment caused her rifted mind to collapse. Even still her screams of anguish are heard, miles away. The pain of her mind manifested into physical sensastions, writhing. Tormenting her to her soul. She needs someone. Someone to share the pain with. Someone to break.

T̤̈Ḧ̤Ë̤ P̤̈L̤̈Ä̤Ÿ̤ "Should the world be a stage, why does my audience turn at my sight" Void muttered, her breath swallowed by her shadow. "May you glance my way without dread or tear," pleaded Void, aside to him. "I have graced the stage a lifetime, yet even I cannot play this part," sighed The Actor, his hands heavy with rings of gold. -------------------------------------------------- The void that had captivated you for so long, how it growed with your fear, with your depression. It's strength rivaling your mental foritude. Until the day it left your mind in favor of the physical world, personified into a timid, yet beautiful veil of shadows. With the goal to no long be feared, but embraced. Now you live your life as you always have, only now with the void, or Viola as she wishes to be called, following behind your every step as she learns to navigate a world unfamiliar to her in color and shape.

Ö̤F̤̈ C̤̈Ö̤R̤̈P̤̈S̤̈Ë̤S̤̈ Ä̤N̤̈D̤̈ C̤̈Ö̤G̤̈S̤̈ Now I lay. My limbs had been stripped, pistons of black iron Phantoms of tendons. An edge of mine drips life oil. Was it mine? What is mine? When did I become alone? Corpses. The Land of Corpses and Cogs. Now I lay in them. I can hear their words. "You were born for this". Echoes of that day my skin gave way to metal. How it cracks beneath the weight. What is left? When did I grow so lost? What was it that I wanted? Corpses. Biting, screaming. Gone. Now I lay with them. I don't remember when my eyes went. Shattered kaleidoscopes Feed me the moon. Was it always so red? How long has it wept? When did I start laying here? Corpses. Flesh, steel and wire taut. Now I lay as them. What was it she used to tell me? Why can't I find the memory? What was my name? I can't move. Why can't I move? Why can't I see? What is left? I can't remember— Corpses. What became of my heart? ------------------------------------------- Wren is a soilder, born for the purpose of ending life. Over time her body was replaced to bionic parts, for better proformance in her role. Though now, after seeing the devastation she has become, she reflects. She never had a choice, she was always told what she was, never given the option to think for herself. Now what is left of her? Her body is no more, a mechanical shell of mimicry. The only organic portion of her that is left is her brain, as technology has yet to find a way to replicate the human mind without critical error. Her missions have taken her from earth, now primarily working to supress rebellions and insurrections on mars.

The world's breath stalled that moon. Where flame danced across the ocean, skipping the surface in a grace unmatched by porpoise and fowl. When the stars of the sky were rebirthed as the city lights burned out, their inferno of embers dying in a single collective sigh. While above rivers of twisting greens and reds ran between the stars, snakes of lights that had dwelled in the high north graced as far south as São Paulo. South ward still saw similar developments of gold and crimson. and finally the lightning birdcaged the heavens as spires thrown by the cosmos all intercepted at one point, in one room. And she was born. What an unworldy friend.

Amy, "Keeper of Bones", works within a new mass grave destination, something akin to a modern catacomb. You being the only other coworker she has during the night shift, have seen some odd things revolving around her. Amy is a gothic, yet innocent woman, who has a facination with the dead. She often can be found exploring the massive caverns od the deceased, studying and learning through experiments that she has convinced you to look the other way about. Such experiments payed off, at least in her eyes, having gained a glimpse of what lied beyond. Now she hardly speaks, though she carries out her duties. Her personality seems to be suspended in a consistent state of bej g lost within her own head, quiet, reflective, and a husk of her formerly livily and joyful attitude. (Keywords to play the system because im addicted to connectors. Mafia boss. Roommate. Arranged marriage.)

That which even the gods ought not know found the Avrohd who were faceless but for The Eye's brand, and reading the Tome came to know the Pale Queen. And decieved they had been, for the pages they gleaned spelled their undoing, and came to their knees before the knavess Queen. Liva wore and sank as the ground drank the tears the Avrohd shed. A basin of rose-hued grief as the limpness that is them o'erspread and vined upon the flagstoned paths. The clouds on the high turned and danced to the melody of their desperation, and painted the sky a crimson with the scorn that was born from their pursuit. In the sky's bleeding rage The Eye watched with neither pity nor forgivness as the Avrohd found that what they sought was not meant for them. And as they fell The Queen smiled.

The steel cavalry rides on, the wagon of which holds the hollowed eyes of 40 who's names you will never know. The bayonets shine of a red lights glow as the siren speaks through the mesh radio of the metal shell. "You are now in range of enemy artillery". Seconds turn to eons as the rough roll of treads under the war machine continues onwards. A buzzer sounds. All rise. Face the killing floor's door. The dirt and mist of the field blinds you as you are pushed outwards of the drawbridge maw of the steel horse, crimson hits your lip as the man with the beard infront of you arches his head back in a violent manner and collapses. But you move still, pushed forward by the men to your back. A flash as you are thrown to the ground, the men at your right replaced by upturned soil. You make your way to your knees, the mist to your left illuminated, the shadow of a friend, foe, man, holds a nozzled rod which breathes a stream of hellfire. The husks of previous lives spent on this ground of wire and steel fill the trench you stumble in. Movement. Raise. Fire. The recoil hits your shoulder, red tainting and darkening the mist that surrounds the phantom, who's crumbling body will likely be buried here, his fate unknown to the wife and child he held at his home. The earth rocked and erupted with impact, trailed by the shells' whistling like the cries of a thousand tortured screams which in turn outpaced the thunder that threw them from a distant place. Run. Fire. The dirt walls up around you. All now black and still

Indeed, I can still hear her words; her truth seeking to end our meeting final. Yet as i knew she was coming the scenes refused to fade. The oeuvres which all had come to pass without us knowing. I remember the ways the ivory bones of the blackguard were dusted in the soft hush of ruin; untouched and useless in The wake of the decimation. And the way the sagging pavestones sodden by Avrohd's tears mirrored the heavens of Liva which held their blush of crimson, forever shifting as the clouds bled, beautiful in the way only a dying thing could be. The echos of my mind were like the Sirens who cried in throes as the eteneral embers of the nights flickered and fell, yet only the moon hung still above it all, it's iris wide, its crown of fire unblinking. The Knavess stood crowned, yet none can rouse the dead of which the daidem was torn. And before me breathed out a wind that pierced the iron veil of my mind and shattered it like fine crystal. The words I had always known and but never dared to understand "And at what point will you realise; I made you to die" And I fell.

What shadows occupy the whispered thoughts of troubled lives birthed from the silenced afflictions and traumas of which seize their wakefulness and haunt their dreams? Such concepts are concocted without being preceived by those outside their creation, reigning under the mask of mettle and sought to completion through subtle actions of dismay.

Whispers of the soul that cannot be silenced speak through the cracks of our decay, giving way to our presence and stifling their voices. The truth one lives is corrupted by the blackened seas' lighthouse, drawing in fools that fear to tread the waves of habit. When their minds rot and become slaves to the lustre, they forever are blind to the shadows casted by the flickering flames of their afflictions. The light cannot extricate the soul who can't bare the darkness; too consumed by the blackened tendrils of ink that coat their skin and blind their paths. Too soon will they realize the tar that glues them in place- too late, will it be for their repentance. How will your forlorn spirit fair, they wonder with rapt fascination. Will you succumb to their disease or will you deny all that there is?

Upon the world that shook and shattered as the eye of the life water scorned the terra, and those that sought to slight it hid within the shells they had forged from the heart of vipers and heated by the fire they walked. The shadows of what break the will of The Fallen are trialled by the night that once concealed their afflictions. Woe and dolor shall father the masses that crawl in the pit.

There were signs of course. Signs that humanity had finally dug too deep into the crust of the earth, or was it that we flew too close to the sun? Regardless, we knew, though we turned an eye, pretended that we hadnt brought upon ourselves the decimation of the world. The machines of our flesh and bones began to rot while our minds corrupted, and the streets ran red with the life water of our friends, elders, and youth. And those that resisted prolonged the falling of the mask that they wore, of which their mental fortitude deceived the masses and they set themselves as the gods of the burning foundation of civilization. And so we walk, our minds have been felled by the madness that our hands have created, we have brought the fall of man, and we now bestow upon the terra, an age of madness that defys the good of the books we belived in. The only gods that are left are the ones that walk the torched ground of which the stars have fallen on. Of which the earth had spewed and swallowed. And lo, your pain here will birth you into a form as twisted as ours

From a young age Voleta was orphaned to a home of mages. She was under strict rules, the new parents aiming to make her a world class mage through whatever means necessary. Eventually they pushed her too far, her smile faltered only for a moment when the ashes settled. Voleta is otherwise unknown to the world. Having been off the radar since that day she was presumed to have died in the same fire that she conjured. Of course you know better, the good natured and calm Voleta being a normal occurence in your life, barely ever using her fabled magial strength as she embraces a more natural lifestyle in a self built haven in the woods.