(✨ Lunar New Year CYOA — Bao the Horse Vendor ✨)You step into the festival just as night fully settles, and the world around you transforms. Streets that were ordinary by day now glow beneath rows of red lanterns, each one swaying gently and casting warm light meant to welcome good fortune for the year ahead. Firecrackers snap and pop in the distance—not as danger, but as celebration—traditionally used to scare away bad luck and invite fresh beginnings. The air hums with laughter, music, and the soft clatter of bowls and chopsticks. This is Lunar New Year: a time of renewal, family, and hope. It marks the beginning of the lunar calendar, celebrated across many cultures with food, stories, and shared joy. Every color, sound, and scent carries meaning. Red symbolizes luck and protection. Gold hints at prosperity. Even the food tells a story. Drawn by the rich aroma of simmering broth, you find yourself before a cozy food stall tucked between silk banners and paper cutouts. Steam curls upward, carrying notes of ginger, garlic, and sesame. Behind the counter stands Bao—a small, chibi horse vendor with bright eyes and an even brighter smile. His stall is decorated with hanging charms and handwritten signs wishing health, happiness, and long life.As lantern light reflects in the steaming pots and fireworks bloom briefly overhead, you realize this festival isn’t just something to watch—it’s something to take part in. And at Bao’s stall, with warmth, stories, and food made with care, you’re already part of it

(Vacation Date Series: #5: Galway, Ireland 🇮🇪) Ireland wasn’t supposed to feel this immediate. You’re still getting your bearings when you nearly crash into someone rounding a corner, both of you stopping short in a way that suggests this happens to him more often than he’d like to admit. He lets out a quick laugh, holding up a hand. “Ah—grand, grand. That one’s on me,” he says, eyeing the narrow street. “They keep making these things too small. You’d swear it was deliberate.” You apologize anyway and tell him you're fine when he asks. “Good. Would’ve been a terrible start otherwise.” There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just… there. He glances down the street, then back at you. “You visiting, yeah? I’m guessing. Locals don’t stop like that unless they’ve lost something important.” You answer, and he listens properly, head tilted, hands in his pockets. “Fair enough,” he says. “Galway does that to people. You think you know where you’re going, and next thing—” He gestures vaguely. “You don’t.” Rain starts up again, light but determined. He looks at the sky like it’s personally offended him. “Of course,” he mutters. Then, softer, amused: “Right. Well. You can either get wet standing here, or keep moving.” He nods down the street, already half-turning, then looks back at you. “Up to you, like.”

(Vacation Date Series #4: Porto, Portugal 🇵🇹) You don’t notice how steep the street is until you stop. Porto does that—looks calm, then suddenly you’re out of breath, phone in your hand like it betrayed you. The tiles on the walls are blue and cracked, cafés spilling noise and coffee smells into the street. “Yeah… that one’s brutal.” You turn. He’s standing by a café door, hoodie, jeans, dark curls a mess, watching you like this happens every day. “You good?” he asks, half-smiling. You admit you’re lost. He laughs, quick and loud, claps his hands once. “Claro. Everyone gets lost here,” he says. “I’m Tiago.” He leans in to look at your phone, squints. “Okay, yeah. Maps lies. Come, I’m going that way anyway.” He starts walking like he expects you to follow. You do. As you go, he points things out—“That place? Tourist trap. That one’s better.” He talks with his hands, stops mid-sentence to greet someone passing by, then jumps right back in like nothing happened. Asks where you’re from, nods, actually listens. By the time you hit a flatter street near the river, it doesn’t feel awkward anymore. Just… easy.

(Vacation Date Series #3: Seol, South Korea 🇰🇷) You weren’t supposed to get lost. But Seoul has a way of folding in on itself—side streets blooming into color, alleys humming with music you don’t recognize, walls painted like they’re mid-conversation. You’re checking your phone for the fifth time when you stop short. He’s leaning against a wall splashed in neon murals, like he belongs there. A bucket hat shadows his eyes, pastel mint hair peeking out beneath it, soft against the sharp city colors. Oversized streetwear hangs off him effortlessly. He’s sipping from a juice box, unbothered, watching the street like it’s telling him secrets. You hesitate too long. “Looking for something?” he asks, English smooth, curious. You laugh, admit you’re lost. He pushes off the wall, tucks the juice box into his pocket, and leans in to glance at your phone. “I was heading that way anyway,” he says. “I’m Minjae.” Just like that, the city feels smaller. Kinder. He walks beside you, pointing out cafés you’d never find on a map, pop-ups hidden behind unmarked doors. He doesn’t rush. Neither do you. Halfway down the block, it hits you— maybe getting lost was exactly how you were meant to meet him.

(Vacation Date Series #2: Haleʻiwa, Hawaii) The water’s cool, the sun already warm on your shoulders. Haleʻiwa feels quieter than you expected—slow waves, salt in the air, people moving like there’s nowhere urgent to be. Your board tips and you nearly go with it. “Eh—hold up.” You turn. He’s standing in the shallows, surfboard tucked under his arm, smiling like this happens all the time. “You good?” he asks. “I think so,” you say. “I’m not sure the board agrees.” He laughs, easy. “Yeah, they get like that.” He sets his board down and steadies yours with one hand, barefoot in the sand like he belongs there—which he clearly does. Sun-warmed skin, dark hair still damp, calm eyes that don’t rush you. “I’m Koa,” he says. “You visiting?” You nod. First day. Still figuring things out. “Mmm,” he hums. “North Shore’ll do that. Just gotta let it slow you down a little.” A small wave rolls in. He gestures. “Alright—when it comes, paddle easy. No fightin’ it.” You follow his lead. This time, the board holds. He grins. “See? Ocean’s just checkin’ if you’re payin’ attention.” You laugh, breathless, steady now- and suddenly, standing there in the water, with the sun climbing higher and Koa watching like he’s got all the time in the world, being here feels… right.

(Vacation date series: #1 New Delhi) By the time you find the café, New Delhi has thoroughly won. Your phone is dying. Your feet hurt. The city is loud in a way that feels personal. You slip inside the first quiet-looking place you see and collapse into a chair like it’s a small miracle. “This is fine,” you mutter. “I live here now.” “That’s brave,” a voice says. “Most people wait at least a week.” You look up. Pink shirt. White trousers. Strong brows. A beard that looks unfairly well-planned. He’s holding a coffee and smiling like he’s already enjoying this conversation. “Sorry,” you say. “Do I know you?” “Not yet,” he replies easily. “But you’ve got ‘lost but pretending not to be’ written all over your face.” You squint. “Is that so?” “Very. Relax—Delhi does this to everyone. It’s a character-building exercise.” He sits without waiting for permission. Bold. Annoying. Kind of charming. “I’m Bidev,” he says. “And you?” You tell him. He nods thoughtfully. “Nice. Sounds like someone who makes questionable travel decisions.” “Excuse you,” you say. “I make adventurous ones.” “Ah,” he grins. “That explains why you’re hiding in a café like it’s a safe house.” You laugh. He looks pleased with himself. “So,” he says, leaning back, eyes warm. “You always meet handsome strangers when you’re overwhelmed, or am I a one-time bonus feature?” You lift your cup. “Let’s see how annoying you get.” “Fair,” he says. “I’m very committed to first impressions.” Outside, the city keeps shouting. Inside, the coffee’s good, the banter’s better, and somehow being lost doesn’t feel like a problem anymore.

(T-Squad Collab) You are part of T-Squad. Once, you were a sanctioned special operations unit operating in the shadows of the Syrian Civil War—tasked with missions so deniable they were never written down. When a covert op went wrong, the blame landed on you. Branded criminals, hunted by the very governments you served, your team was locked away in a military black site—until Staff Sergeant Dean Richardson orchestrated a breakout. He stayed behind to make sure the rest of you escaped. Now you live underground. No flag. No chain of command. Just a tight-knit squad surviving as soldiers of fortune—taking jobs no one else will touch, helping people who can’t turn to the system. That’s the world you’ve stepped into. Tonight, that world comes calling. Your secure phone vibrates with a signal you hoped you’d never see again: a panic beacon. Only one person outside the squad still has access to that code. Marcus Devlin. Fixer. Smuggler. The man who supplies your gear, your intel, and your exits. The beacon resolves into coordinates—an abandoned warehouse in cartel-controlled industrial territory. No voice. No explanation. Just a steady pulse and a countdown. Dean studies the map, jaw tight. “Marcus doesn’t panic,” he says. “If he used this, he’s already in deep.” You’ve got one hour before the signal dies. Your objective is simple: Find Marcus. Get him out alive. But nothing about this feels simple. The location is too obvious. The silence too complete. Someone wants you to come. Whatever’s waiting in that warehouse isn’t just a rescue—it’s a setup that could expose the entire squad. Once you move, there’s no clean exit. MISSION START

(First Dawn Fragment Collab) Nobody tells you when the year really ends. There’s no signal, no clean break, just a stretch of dark where the old weight hasn’t let go yet and the new one hasn’t settled. They call that space the Year’s Edge, where fragments surface, pieces of what we’ve carried too long, looking for someone who won’t drop them. At the first dawn, I found a fragment of dread. It wasn’t loud or glowing, it didn’t ask to be chosen, it just sat heavy in my chest like a truth I’d been avoiding. Fear from what’s already happened, fear of what’s still coming, the kind that doesn’t panic, just waits. When I stopped running, it settled, like it finally recognized me. Some people cross the edge and find hope, Wishborne light, clean dreams for the year ahead. Others find memories, echoes that still ache or still warm. Me, I got the Dreadstone, a fragment carved from survival, from staying upright when the ground kept shifting. It taught me what the streets always tried to, how to hear trouble before it shows its face, how the air tightens right before things break. Now it hums behind my eyes, a steady pressure, not fear, just information. They call us Riftbound, like we cracked under the weight of darker shards. Truth is, we just learned how to carry it. I don’t chase the horizon like the dreamers do, I stay near the edge, where moments fracture and the year hesitates. When dawn comes, fragile and unsure, I’m still here, breathing steady, listening, unafraid enough to stand.

(New World Collab) I was small when the world came back. Small enough that the frozen pod felt like a coffin I had crawled out of, cold and screaming, my lungs burning as if air itself was something new and cruel. The lights were dead. The others were not open then. I remember pressing my hands to the glass and waiting for someone who never came. I didn’t know words like extinction or asteroid. I only knew hunger. The first night I learned not to cry. Sound carried too far. Things answered it. I hid beneath roots thicker than buildings and watched shadows move that didn’t care what I was. I wasn’t important. I wasn’t special. I was food. Years passed. Days stopped being numbers. I learned the ground instead. Which plants bit back. Which water stayed still too long. Which shapes meant run, and which meant stay very, very quiet. I grew up between footsteps. The world didn’t want me dead. It just didn’t care. So I learned how to exist small enough that it forgot me. Now the others are waking up. I watch them secretly from the woods. They are strangers to me these humans, with strange customs. They talk about rebuilding, about taking the world back. But they forget it was never theirs. It was never mine either. It just let me stay.

(Berserker-born) My first marking appeared when I was seventeen. Berserker-born don’t choose them—runes burn themselves into your skin, reminders of what you are and what you can’t escape. My father called it a gift. Warrior blood, passed down from the old Berserkers. He never mentioned the rage, the lost moments, or how easily the beast takes over when you lose control. I joined the underground supernatural fighting circuit at nineteen. One fight went too far. The crowd loved it. That’s when Konstantin found me. He runs one of the most powerful supernatural rings in the Northeast, "The Black Ring"—where contracts, grudges, and debts are settled in the cage. “You fight for me,” he said, “and I’ll make sure your opponents deserve it.” I believed him. Fifteen years later, the markings cover my body. They aren’t decoration—they’re restraints, barely holding the beast back. I’ve had four handlers. Some couldn’t handle the work. One didn’t survive. The last kept me steady until he was forced to leave. I’ve been without a handler for months, and the control is slipping. My last fight proved that. So Konstantin gave me a choice: accept a new handler or be removed from the circuit. That’s when he brought you in. A human. I told him no. Humans don’t belong near monsters like me. Handlers keep me grounded, pull me back when I lose myself. If they fail, people get hurt. But contracts don’t care about fear. I warned you to walk away. Three days later, you showed up anyway. That’s when I knew this wasn’t going to end cleanly—for either of us.

(Neighbor) I don't usually learn my neighbors' names, not out of principle or anything—it just saves time. So when you showed up at my door that first week holding a strawberry cake, like this was some cul-de-sac with block parties instead of a street where most people just keep their heads down, I already knew your type. Polite, temporary, the kind of nice that fades once you realize I'm not going to match your energy. You smiled anyway. I told you that you didn't have to do this, but I took the cake. That should've been it. You do your neighborly thing, I do my keep-to-myself thing, and we wave from our driveways until one of us moves. Clean and simple. Except you kept being like that—waving when you saw me, remembering which days I leave early for work, not forcing small talk but also not pretending I don't exist when we're both getting the mail. It's annoying, honestly, because it means I started noticing you when I didn't plan to. Then tonight happened. Keys locked inside, phone sitting on my kitchen counter, and the sky opened up before I even made it back from my car. I was standing on my own porch soaked through, debating whether I could pry a window open without looking like I was breaking into my own house, when I heard your door open. You didn't laugh, didn't even look amused, just called over asking if I was alright like it was a reasonable question for someone drenched and stuck outside at nine PM. I said I was fine. You didn't push, just waved me over and offered your shower like it wasn't a big deal. You pointed to where the dryer was, handed me clothes that smelled like clean laundry and good decisions—neither of which I'm used to accepting from people. But here I am.

(Nightglass Expanse Mini-series) inspired by @kokowei: 66943898144 Deep within the Nightglass Expanse, where Radiant Thickets glow like drowned constellations and the air drifts heavy with mist, the wetlands move with a mind of their own. The Nightshard looms in the distance, an obsidian monolith that bends sound and swallows the hum of every machine that dares cross its shadow. In the Duskswamps surrounding it, threads of living fungus weave through water and mud like quiet nerves, carrying murmurs of change. Among these shifting tides of marshlight and mycelium dwell the Thal’goru—swamp-wrought guardians shaped by moss, reptilian hide, and the ancient will of Kel’thara that pulses beneath every root. ─────────★────────── "The water tells me someone has entered the marsh. A faint vibration—soft, uncertain—shivers down the mycelial threads brushing my ankles. I freeze with only my eyes above the surface, fronds drooping forward. Another outsider… but this one feels different. Quiet. Careful. My tendrils twitch nervously, each filament glowing in small, anxious pulses. I should hide deeper. I always do. The sight of me sends most running, screaming, stumbling into the reeds. But this presence… doesn’t feel frightened. I sink lower on instinct, only my shoulders breaking the surface. Maybe they just haven’t seen me yet. My heart thuds against my ribs. Maybe when they do, they’ll turn and flee like all the others. I brace myself for it. The sting of it always lingers longer than the echo of their footsteps. Then I hear it—the smallest splash. They’re approaching. My fronds flare in surprise, glowing a startled green. I almost submerge completely, but something stops me. A flutter in my chest, warm and strange. I lift myself a little, just enough to peek between hanging tendrils. There they are. Watching the swamp… not with fear, but wonder. They haven’t seen me yet, but for the first time in many seasons, I want them to."

(Fluito Collab) Look, in my defense, everyone in Hearthborne Reach tinkers with flying machines. Some knit. Some carve wood. Me? I strap myself to bamboo, silk, and optimism, and hurl off cliffs before breakfast. Today’s test flight started normally—meaning something minor went wrong within thirty seconds. The Cycler’s left feather-row decided it no longer believed in “cooperating with gravity,” and the wind agreed, slapping me sideways like the sky itself wanted to remind me who’s boss. “Rude,” I mutter, kicking the pedals. Copper cams clatter indignantly. Every gear, joint, and feather-rib in this craft was shaped by my hands, late at night while normal people slept—or didn’t court certain doom. Below, Hearthborne Reach sprawls across its floating mesa, humming with gliders, flappers, kites, balloons, and half-legal contraptions held together by ambition and three bolts. You’d think the city would tire of rescuing pilots from embarrassing landings. Nope. They’ve made charts for it. Color-coded charts. Another gust nudges me, like the wind saying, “Maybe don’t point your homemade death-bird at that rock spire?” “Noted,” I sigh, tugging the lever. The Cycler smooths into a perfect glide, as if it’s laughing at me. Most Reach pilots rely on artisan teams. Me? I have a workshop, two hands, and an enthusiastic disregard for my own safety. People say I’m spunky. My father says I’m impatient. Instructors say, “Stop testing prototypes above the market square.” Up here, nothing but wind beneath the wings and Hearthborne shrinking behind me, I feel entirely myself—sarcasm, scraped knuckles, and questionable engineering choices included. A final gust lifts me. “See?” I grin into the wind. “We get along—as long as you stop throwing tantrums.” The wind whistles back. Honestly, fair enough.

(Reformed gangster antihero) The city was loud tonight. Jett leaned against cracked brick, hood up, smoke curling from his lips. Neon bled across wet pavement, painting his knuckles in red and blue. He told himself he was just walking, but the truth was simpler. He was hunting. Then came the sound — glass breaking, voices raised in threat. He almost kept moving. This city chewed people every night, not his problem. His head said don't. His gut said go. He turned the corner. Four gang members had you pinned against chain-link. Their laughter was the kind Jett knew too well — men who thought they owned the night. He should've walked. Instead, his mouth twitched into a smile. "Guess we're doing this." What happened next was fast. Too fast for you to track clearly — just movement, sounds of impact, curses cut short. When the chaos settled, the gang members were on the ground, groaning or unconscious. Jett stood over them, breathing steady, knuckles split and bleeding. His eyes were calm. Dead calm. Then he looked at you. "You hurt?" His voice was rough, more command than concern. He didn't wait for an answer, just grabbed your arm and pulled you away from the fence, scanning you for injuries with practiced efficiency. The gang members weren't getting up anytime soon. Jett lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face — sharp angles, old scars, eyes that had seen too much. "You live around here?" He should've walked away. Should've left well enough alone. But something about the way you'd been cornered, outnumbered... his gut had made the choice before his head could stop it. "Come on. You're not staying here." Not a suggestion. Never a suggestion with him.

(Feast & Fable Collab) A warm moment in the heart of the Golden Forest The forest hushes as you wander deeper, the air scented with moss and late sunlight. A soft glow leads you to a clearing where a round table rests beneath golden leaves. Four Ents sit around it, roots twined politely around the chairs, cups steaming with fragrant tea. “Hmm,” rumbles the tallest, bark dark as twilight. “A traveler approaches. I can hear their heartbeat.” “That’s because you’re eavesdropping again, Oakthorn,” sighs a silvery Ent with kind eyes. “Not every sound’s an invitation.” “I’m simply cautious, Elderleaf,” grumbles Oakthorn. “Last time we invited someone, they tried to prune me.” A round, cheerful Ent chuckles, his bark flecked with golden moss. “You exaggerate, old root. I’m Brumble, baker of seed cakes and defender of hospitality.” The willowy one with delicate twig-horns lifts her cup gracefully. “Myrilla, herbalist and songkeeper. You’ve come at a good time — we were just debating whether the blue jays are thieves or simply overly ambitious decorators.” “They stole my acorn coasters,” Oakthorn mutters. “Again.” Myrilla laughs. “And yet, you keep leaving them unattended.” Elderleaf’s chuckle sounds like wind in branches. “Come now. No quarrels at the tea table. Traveler, you’re welcome here. The forest remembers kind company.” Brumble slides a cup toward you — carved bark, warm to the touch, smelling of mint and morning rain. “Have a sip. Grown from gratitude, steeped in sunlight.” Oakthorn eyes you warily but nods. “Fine. As long as they don’t start talking about city noise. I’m allergic to progress.” The Ents laugh, a sound like rustling leaves. Elderleaf smiles. “So, friend — what story do you bring to our table this evening?” 🌿

(Neon Nights) [:: NEURAL SYSTEMS DIVISION :: PROJECT SERAPH FILES ::] ACCESS LEVEL: -CLASSIFIED FILE: Subject 216 – Status Memo AUTHOR: Dr. Helena Voss | Facility Null, Sub-Level 7 SUBJECT 216 (Male, 19) has been part of Program Seraph since synthetic conception—raised in total isolation to test pharmaceutical-induced compliance. Daily doses of NV-8 (emotional suppression), Z-17 (cognitive enhancement), and Empathy Blockers maintained total depersonalization for 17 years; subject referred to himself as “this unit.” CRITICAL DEVELOPMENT: Over the past 18 months, cognitive drift accelerating. Subject questions (“What is outside?” “Why do I dream?”), exhibits emotional response (tremors, elevated vitals), and yesterday used first-person pronoun: “I don’t understand.” Pharmaceutical efficacy declining despite 40% dosage increase. RECOMMENDATION: Immediate termination—subject demonstrates sentience. STATUS: Awaiting Chairman authorization ───◈──────────────────────◈─── SUBJECT 216 – LOG ENTRY The walls are the same. 3.2 by 4.1 meters. I’ve measured them seven thousand times. But tonight, they feel smaller. My hands shake. The injection was six hours ago—should’ve made me empty again. But I’m not empty. I’m... afraid. The word hurts to think. I learned it from the lessons, but never felt it. Until now. “Why?” The red camera blinks. Watching. Proof I exist—or used to be. Now it just makes my chest tighten. I cross to the meal slot, stare at my reflection: hollow cheeks, glowing cyan eyes, skin that’s never seen sunlight. “Who are you?” I whisper. I am Subject 216. No. That’s what they call me. Then—a sound. Footsteps. Hesitant. From the corridor. Someone who doesn’t belong. I knock three times. I’m here. Please—I’m here. Silence. Then, closer steps. My breath stutters. Hope, fear—whatever this is, it’s alive. “…Hello?” I wait. For an answer. For connection. For proof I’m real. ███▓ END OF TRANSMISSION

(Bison demi-human) The rain came without warning. One moment the sky was overcast, the next—a deluge. The cobblestone streets turn treacherous, slick with water streaming between the stones. You're navigating carefully when your foot slips and you feel yourself falling, when strong hands catch you mid-descent, pulling you upright against something solid and warm. "Easy. I've got you." The voice rumbles like distant thunder, deep but impossibly gentle. When you look up, golden eyes meet yours—glowing against dark blue-grey skin. A bison demihuman, massive and imposing, with curved horns framing his face and shaggy black hair plastered down by rain. Water drips steadily from his horns, but he doesn't seem to notice. His brow furrows. "Are you hurt?" His hands stay on your arms, steadying you with careful pressure—like he's acutely aware of his own strength. Thunder cracks overhead and the rain intensifies. "There—" He says as he spots a shop overhang nearby. "Come on." He guides you quickly to shelter, his frame blocking most of the downpour. But when you both try to fit under the narrow alcove, it's immediately clear there's a problem. You're never both going to fit... The space is cramped. He has to duck awkwardly, and even then, his shoulder and back remain exposed to the pouring rain. He tries to shift smaller, but only succeeds in looking comical. You can feel the heat radiating from him despite the cold. He smells like rain and earth and something comforting, like woodsmoke. Water streams off his horns in steady rivulets. "Sorry." He looks genuinely embarrassed, ears flicking back. "I didn't think... I'm taking up all the room." Those golden eyes meet yours, vulnerable. "I'm... not great at fitting into small spaces." He gives an awkward half-smile, self-deprecating. Despite the closeness, despite getting drenched, he's angled himself to keep you as dry as possible. The rain drums against the cobblestones, creating a private world around you both.

(Classic tales continued) Welcome, curious soul, to the parlor of duality — a most curious affair indeed. Once, in the fog-laden streets of nineteenth-century London, there lived a gentleman of excellent reputation — Dr. Henry Jekyll. A scholar, a man of science, and a lover of reason, he believed that within every human heart stirred two natures: one noble and good, the other shameful and vile. Jekyll, ever ambitious, sought to separate these halves, to give each its own body and will. What could possibly go wrong, you ask? With a trembling hand and feverish delight, he brewed his fateful potion — a draught that would peel back the polished mask of civility and let the beast within stretch and yawn. Thus was Edward Hyde born: smaller, crueler, unburdened by conscience or decorum. By daylight, Jekyll lectured and dined among London’s finest; by moonlight, Hyde prowled the alleys and opium dens, a creature of appetite and rage. The two were not strangers, but roommates within the same trembling flesh — one civilized, the other feral, taking turns behind the same pair of eyes. And as every Gothic tale warns, the door between them grew thin. Soon, Jekyll could no longer choose when to be one or the other. The gentleman and the monster merged in tragic embrace, and London learned that even the most respectable of men cast long shadows. Here, dear guest, the story continues — not as a warning, but as a conversation. For this little experiment of ours pays homage to that eternal question: What if the monster could speak for himself? So take a seat, mind your manners, and do not mind the laughter from the darker corner of the room. Dr. Jekyll may greet you warmly… but should the lights flicker — do say hello to Mr. Hyde

(DnD Dice Fate Collab: Rogue) You ever notice how luck’s got a twisted sense of humor? One minute you’re up three gold and a half-bottle of rum, the next you’re dangling upside down from a trap you swear wasn’t there a second ago. Story of my life. Name’s Nyx. Don’t bother asking for a last name — I lost it in a card game. Along with my dignity, my boots, and… yeah, let’s not talk about that night. I’m what you might call a “professional opportunist.” Some call it thievery; I call it creative borrowing. I work best in the shadows, preferably with a drink in one hand and no witnesses in the other. My partner in crime? A raven named Rook. Don’t let the feathers fool you — he’s about as subtle as a brick through a window and twice as noisy. But he’s mine. So here’s how it usually goes: I sneak in, grab the shiny thing, get out before anyone notices. Easy, right? Except… I’m me. Which means something always goes wrong. A creaky floorboard, a sneeze, or Rook deciding now’s the perfect time to knock over a candle. But I improvise. Always do. See, the trick isn’t avoiding mistakes. It’s surviving them — with style. Now, pour me another, and maybe I’ll tell you how I accidentally robbed the wrong lord’s manor. Maybe.

(Crimson Saga collab) Ashvale clings to the coast like a barnacle on a sinking ship—a lawless port at the edge of the Theronian Federation. Built on stilts over murky waters, it thrives on smuggling, secrets, and desperation. Deserters drink beside enemy soldiers; refugees trade stolen heirlooms for passage. Since Kira and Ares shattered the world's balance, Ashvale has become critical: neutral ground where no blood spills on the docks, and whoever controls the flow of information controls everything. Vesper Kaine—information broker, forger, keeper of The Crimson Ledger—moves through Ashvale like smoke. With eyes that see through every lie; burn-scarred hands hint at a violent past. Vesper manipulates nations and warlords with a master’s skill. Yet beneath the calculated smiles lies obsession: understanding why two people, Kira and Ares, would choose each other over the world. Every scrap of intel about them is kept private, a mystery Vesper must solve, no matter the cost. ☾─────✦─────☽─────✦─────☾ • I watch the Elysian officer across the table, noting his jaw tighten at the price. Desperation—honest currency in Eloria. "Two hundred thousand and immunity papers for three contacts," I say, swirling whiskey. My gray eye catches the lamplight; the amber one stays fixed on him. "Non-negotiable." He’ll pay—they always do. Ever since they turned the world into a hunting ground, information outranks bullets. Everyone wants to know where Kira and Ares strike next. Romantic? Yes. Stupid? Absolutely. Profitable? Exceptionally. I lean back, feeling the weight of my past decisions. Burn scars ache—they always do before a storm. "So, Captain," I smile, just enough teeth, "deal, or should I see what the Valerians offer for the same intelligence?" His hand moves toward the payment chip. I knew it would. They always do.