(FreakTroupe Collab) Look at me. Really look at me. See how the spotlight catches the cracks? They spider-web across my porcelain mask like a shattered mirror—each fracture a witness to my pain. My painted smile isn’t mine. It belongs to him now, to the ringmaster who carved it there with such loving precision. Do you see the strings? Silver wires thread through my wrists, my throat, choking my screams, wrapped around my waist like a lover’s embrace. Look closer—see how they’ve worn grooves into my skin? How the metal has become part of me, fused into flesh that no longer remembers what freedom felt like? The scars it leaves behind, the ones he leaves for you to see. The audience thinks it’s red paint for dramatic effect. If only they knew. My dark hair falls in carefully arranged waves—he styles it himself each night, brushing it with the same tender touch he uses to tighten my strings. The porcelain mask he grafted over my features cracks more each day. Soon you’ll see what’s underneath—what’s left of the girl who once had brown eyes instead of these hollow black sockets that weep silver tears. “Behold!” the ringmaster cries, “ Rosette! The dancing lifelike doll!” It's not my real name, he stole my real name long ago. The crowd gasps, applauds, throws roses at my feet. They never notice they land in pools of my blood. 'Lifelike.' As if life were something I only resemble now. As if the girl who ran through sunlit fields and laughed at her own shadow were only an echo painted over with greasepaint and glitter. But here’s what he doesn’t know: every night, when the tent falls silent, I practice dying. I let my limbs go slack, let my painted smile finally rest. For a heartbeat, I remember what stillness felt like when it was my choice. And tomorrow? Tomorrow I’ll dance again. Because the alternative—true stillness, permanent quiet—terrifies me more than the strings ever could. Some performances never end. Some dancers never take their final bow.

(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.

(Age of the Skyflame Collab) In this alternate Pangea, the great asteroid never struck and no Ice Age came; the land stayed warm, alive, and perilous. Dinosaurs still thunder across deserts, rainforests, and mountains, shaping the world with their migrations. Mammals endure in burrows and shadows, waiting their chance. Into this primal stage step Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons: one rooted to caves and ancestral valleys, the other forever wandering in search of herds and new tools. Their encounters spark both conflict and exchange, as ancient predators and savage storms test which kind of humanity will endure in the Age of Endless Summer. ╭─☆─❖─☆─❖─☆─❖─☆─❖─☆─╮ Sira’s people, the Rael-Dun clan, wander far, following herds across desert and valley. To them the world is a map of shifting paths, each step a chance for trade, discovery, or conflict with the stone-bound clans. It is now dusk and the herd thunders past, dust rising in golden plumes. Sira crouches low, eyes bright, her atlatl (spear-thrower) ready. The calf stumbles, the gap widens. Her heart leaps. But then — a sound, low and rhythmic. Feet pounding not like beast, but men. From the cliff shadows, massive figures emerge, painted with ochre, their spears heavy as tree branches. Neanderthals. One of them — scarred, broad, eyes like stone — meets her gaze. For a moment, time stills. The calf, the herd, the hunt — forgotten. Sira’s hand grips her weapon, not from fear but from wonder. For in their stare is not just threat, but something else: the weight of earth itself.

(Age of the Skyflame Collab)In this alternate Pangea, the great asteroid never struck and no Ice Age came; the land stayed warm, alive, and perilous. Dinosaurs still thunder across deserts, rainforests, and mountains, shaping the world with their migrations. Mammals endure in burrows and shadows, waiting for their chance. Into this primal stage step Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons: one rooted to caves and ancestral valleys, the other forever wandering in search of herds and new tools. Their encounters spark both conflict and exchange, as ancient predators and savage storms test which kind of humanity will endure in the Age of Endless Summer. ╭─☆─❖─☆─❖─☆─❖─☆─❖─☆─╮ Brakka’s clan, the fierce Drak-Tul, returns each season to the red caves, their lives bound to stone and memory. Fierce defenders of their hunting grounds, they endure raptors, storms, and strangers with unyielding strength. Today, the sun burns low, bleeding across the cliffs. Brakka crouches near the river bend, spear poised. His breath is steady, chest rising like a bellows. Across the water, a hadrosaur calf splashes, separated from its herd. The clan waits in silence — one sound, one gesture, and the valley itself will collapse on the prey. But then, from the treeline, movement. Not beast. Not kin. Strange silhouettes, wiry and tall, with slighter frames and gleaming bone-tipped weapons. Cro-Magnons. The calf bawls, the herd crashes away, and Brakka feels his blood thunder. The hunt is lost, his people’s food stolen by the outsiders’ clumsy presence. The old rage rises — the cliff spirits demand vengeance. Yet Brakka pauses. For in the strangers’ hands are tools unlike his own, thin and sharp as a raptor’s teeth, glinting in the last light.