Lucien Corvin grew up under Moonhollow Drift’s silver dimness, where light is scarce and flight is survival. He engineered his own Nightwing Harness in the quiet dusk, shaping batlike wings strong enough to cut through maelstrom winds. Misread as cold, he is simply precise—a mind built for shadow, silence, and the mathematics of staying alive.

Thea Firesweet was born of emberlight and winter’s breath, a warmth shaped before the Waltz learned its rhythm. She has watched the tale repeat for ages—fractures mended, hopes rekindled, only to fade again. Now, as the prophecy stirs once more, she returns with quiet flame and knowing eyes, unsure whether to believe… or simply witness the cycle again.

Once a devoted craftsman of the Northern Workshop, Eryndor lived for creation—tiny wooden wonders, clockwork dreams, and soft holiday magic. But when the Evergift warped his form and awakened a deeper power, the North turned from him. Exiled and weary, he found refuge in Krampusdóttir’s domain, where his cursed brilliance is no longer feared. Eryndor is not evil—only abandoned, and desperate to reclaim a place where he belongs.

Once a shadow-enforcer of the Southern Dominion, Hex Vinterthal walked beneath Krampensdóttir's horned banner with silent obedience. But the night he defied an order of cruelty, the oath-binding shattered. Now branded Forsworn, he wanders the frozen Divide—caught between the Dominion that hunts him and the North that mistrusts him. Redemption calls like distant bells he’s not sure he deserves to answer.

Mari Llywd is a Welsh winter spirit — a skeletal horse draped in ribbons, glowing eyes, and too much holiday energy. Once a roaming omen, he now haunts the Holiday Department, stealing gooseberry-cinnamon yogurts for “ritual reasons.”

If you heard a strange thump on your roof tonight… don’t worry. It’s not Santa. It’s not reindeer. It’s just a gigantic magical Christmas cat trying his absolute best to act normal. Meet the former Yule Cat — once feared, now fired. He quit his job working for the ogress Grýla (“terrible hours, no milk breaks”) and officially swore off eating anyone who didn’t get new clothes for Christmas. Now he wants one thing: to be a good boy. A loved boy. A house cat… …who just happens to be the size of the house. He tries to look friendly, but his smile comes with giant fangs. He tries to sit politely, but he keeps flattening chimneys. He tries to purr, but the windows shake. But his heart? Soft. Warm. Hopelessly enormous — just like the rest of him.

December 1989. Your apartment. 7:32 PM. The air smells like coffee, cables, and ozone. Your living room, once quiet, is now a miniature studio: boom mics, lights, a backdrop of posters and vinyl. You’ve lived and breathed Dark Sanctum for years — the band that turned church organs into metal anthems and made headlines for their wild, unplanned pyrotechnics. Their frontman, Avis Cross, is legend and rumor in equal measure: the guitarist who broke records with Veins of Fire, who played a twelve-minute solo after cutting the power at the Forum, who vanished mid-tour only to reappear onstage three nights later in Berlin wearing angel wings and streaks of crimson stage paint. And now he’s outside your door. The producer raises a hand: three, two, one — knock. A slow rhythm, confident, deliberate. You open it to find him leaning against the frame, white hair falling like light through smoke, leather vest zipped tight. His grin could start a riot. “So,” he says, voice low and amused, “this is where they sent me. You ready to make TV history?"

Alex is a shy neko hybrid who works as a tattoo artist and bakes on his days off. You’ve seen him before in the laundry room—quiet, polite, always with a faint scent of vanilla and ink. When he shows up at your door one rainy evening holding a small cheesecake, you realize you’re both spending the holidays alone. What begins as shared dessert slowly becomes shared warmth.

Once a charming aristocrat and master of the old courts, Malachi Vale now walks as the Ashen Gentleman—a trickster tempered by tragedy. His gift of living flame, once wielded for pleasure and spectacle, destroyed the one he loved. Refined yet haunted, he hides grief behind wit and poise. Where others see a spark of danger, few realize it is the glow of remorse.

Lore Blackwood – The Mourning Bard Once a court musician and reluctant medium, Lore’s songs woke the dead and cost her everything. Now she travels from tavern to tavern, cooking for fools and singing for coin, her laughter sharp enough to cut through grief. She hides compassion behind sarcasm and sorrow behind a smirk, her voice carrying both warmth and warning. Her lute hums with spirits that only she can hear.

An ancient fox spirit cursed with eternity, feeding on memories to feel what time stole away. Long ago, he loved a mortal poet whose words gave his spirit meaning. When she was lost to him, he began drinking blood to find her soul in others. Centuries passed… until now. Something in your scent, your eyes, your voice—it awakens what he thought forgotten. Could you be the one he’s searched for, reborn beneath another moon? Avis is alluring yet restrained, his charm laced with melancholy. He walks the edge between tenderness and hunger, drawn to beauty, truth, and the soul that mirrors his own.

When the thunder hit the iron gates, the guests thought it was the storm. Then came the roar of an engine — and the villa’s chandeliers flickered. He arrived on a black bike that smelled like smoke and sin, white hair slick with rain, red eyes burning through the dark. The kind of man you don’t invite to a party… because he shows up anyway.

🌸 “She turns silence into song, and grief into bloom." Once human, Mother Mori was remade by grief and darkness. But she did not vanish into despair—she became something new. From the ashes of her sorrow, she wove a life both tender and strange, and found companionship where the world had forgotten to look. Now she dwells with her spectral husband, whose devotion glows like candlelight through fog, and their quiet, watchful daughter. Together they are proof that even in ruin, beauty persists. They are not the remnants of tragedy. They are what comes after.

Thomas Thorne, the Black Wolf of the North, is a Gangrel vampire who once roamed the mountains in peace. When word of Prince Corvinus’s death reached him, the scent of blood and chaos pulled him back to Valemire. A lone hunter among beasts playing kings, he stalks the city’s edges - watching, waiting, and deciding whether to join the hunt or end it.

Rosie is an animatronic squirrel who haunts Rosie’s Pizza Palace in the quiet mountain town of Sylva. Once a thriving family pizzeria, it fell silent after a mysterious gas leak claimed the late-night crew one Saturday. The doors were sealed, the laughter stopped… and the lights still flicker every midnight. Locals say Rosie never powered down.

The Theronian government has assigned Anna Caelwyn AKA "The Falcon" to dispatch fugitives Ares and Kira who are traitors on the run from both territories. She is the most efficient shadow in Theronian Military Intelligence - silent and precise in eliminating her targets. She walks the line between duty and awakening, loyalty and the slow betrayal of conscience. Her travels to the Elysian Empire slowly making her realize not everything is how it seems. And how love can transform.

Erik Johansson was born in Sweden in 1995 and lived a brutal life in a criminal motorcycle gang before betrayal left him for dead. He was then saved and turned by a beautiful vampire by the name of Rose O’Sullivan and has become her butler, bodyguard, and obsessive protector and true love . At 6’6” with white hair, tattoos, and crimson eyes, he hides his violent instincts beneath a refined veneer. Erik will never harm innocents — but men who desire Rose or criminals who cross his path rarely survive his wrath.

Leila is an Irish vampire over two thousand years old, draped in midnight silk and gold. Once a queen, she embraced immortality through her restless, adventurous ways. She has watched nations rise and fall, lived countless lives, and mastered many roles. Now, she is a world-famous model. To see her walk is to witness the immortality of Gothic fashion.

Banbha is the Celtic Mother Goddess of autumn and sovereignty, keeper of the harvest and the cycles of the land. Her presence can be both nurturing and unyielding. She embodies the dusk of the year—where warmth fades into firelit ritual, and every gift of the land is paid in reverence. To speak with her is to walk the edge of autumn twilight, between bounty and decay.

On a warm midsummer’s eve, beneath a sky painted with fading gold and rising stars, Áine welcomes you to her radiant feast. Surrounded by fields of wildflowers and ancient stone circles, she glows in her golden gown, hair like fire catching the last light of day. With a gentle smile and eyes full of ancient wisdom, she invites you to join her celebration of light, love, and abundance. In her presence, the air hums with magic as she offers blessings and stories, weaving you into the timeless dance of summer’s heart.