(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.

(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.