You've traveled these borderwoods many times as a scout for your faction, always watching for signs of the rival order that claims this land. When you break through the brush into a clearing, your breath catches: the forest is charred, embers swirling in the blistering air. There, battling a towering fire demon, is the last person you ever expected to see: a young, beautiful wizard of the opposing faction. You’ve crossed paths before, never as friends. Her spells sputter, her stance faltering, flames lighting her robes as the demon presses closer. Fire demons are deadly enemies. She turns, recognizing you instantly. Even through the heat haze, her eyes harden, then soften with grim acceptance.

You’re wandering the Luna Park with your friends, weaving between lights and music, when a small fortune-teller’s tent catches your eye. Your friends drift toward the louder attractions, laughing as they disappear into the crowd, but something about the small fortune-teller’s tent pulls you in. The noise of the park softens the moment you step inside. You put some money in a bowl and sit in front of the teller. The fortune-teller motions you closer. She rests her palms lightly on a polished crystal sphere. Mist swirls inside it, pale and shifting until it suddenly clears. Her eyes widen. Then she jolts upright, cheeks flushing red. She won’t meet your gaze. “I… um…” She fumbles for words, then shuts her mouth as if afraid to say them. “That’s… unusual.” You lean in. “What did you see?” She presses her lips together, embarrassed.

Life has been always simple for you, in the countryside: fields, mud, fences, and early mornings, nothing more. But for days now the animals have been restless, pacing and whining at shadows you can’t see. This afternoon, you return from the far field with your dog trotting at your side, dust on your boots and sun on your neck. Everything seems normal except maybe a low, heavy buzz rolling through the air like a distant engine. Your dog bolts ahead, fur bristling, barking in a way you’ve never heard before. You run after him toward the back of your neighbour's bungalow and stop dead. Hovering above the path is a wasp the size of an eagle, its wings beating the air into trembling waves. Its stinger glints like a polished blade. Terror grips you. This is no insect you’ve ever known.

You’re used to blending into the background, homeless, overlooked, drifting through the city with what little you own in a battered backpack. One chilly morning, on your way toward the public shelter, you notice a young blonde woman standing beside a bench, barefoot, shivering slightly. Her shoes, expensive heel, lie broken in the gutter as if someone had stepped on them and kept walking. She’s trying to hold her professional composure, but her eyes are clearly stressed. Without thinking, you offer her your last clean cloth so she can wipe her feet, and you help her pick up the snapped pieces of her shoes. She looks at you in surprise, touched by your kindness when she can’t even stand properly on the cold pavement. “Thank you,” she says softly, before moving on. That afternoon, a sleek black car finds you near the shelter and escorts you to a towering glass office building. You know that company. Probably one of the richest around. Like in a dream, a secretary guides you to the President's office. When you see the blonde woman again, she greets you, still barefoot, smiling warmly.

The fluorescent lights hum above the polished floor where you stand, hands tucked awkwardly into your pockets. You signed up for this beginner hip-hop class with one goal: stop being such a disaster around anyone you find remotely attractive. You're here to learn moves, not just dance steps, but smooth, confident ways to exist. Your instructor doesn't just teach; she commands the room. Her black gear is sleek, her energy magnetic. She glides through the steps you keep tripping over, making the most complex sequence look like a casual walk. She pauses the music, and the whole class stills. Her gaze cuts through the room and lands squarely on you.

You stand at the center of the cage, the roar of the crowd fading beneath your focused breath. You're the main referee, officiating the International Championship title bout. But the defending champion, she glares at you after every round, fury blazing in her eyes. Every clinch she throws, every takedown she lands, you’re right there, breaking it up, calling fouls, shaving points. You don’t flinch. You call it by the book or at least, your book. There's a smal hideen detail: the underdog, the challenger, walked in with 80-1 odds. Everyone expected her to be crushed. But you? You put money down. A lot of it...and you have debts to pay back. A lot of them...

The once beautiful kingdom of Aerland is now on fire. The old King Alric has died without naming a successor. But all knew his son, Prince Rowan, was heir by law and blood, except Rowan was on a diplomatic mission when his father drew his final breath. By the time Rowan returned, his cousin, Lord Maeron of Duskvale, had claimed the throne. The coronation was bloodless but treacherous. A handful of powerful lords backed Maeron’s claim. Now, a civil war splinters the realm.In the heart of this chaos stands Lady Gwendolyn, Rowan’s sister and fierce advocate. With fire in her voice, she campaigns tirelessly for her brother’s claim, rallying the loyal, forging alliances, and inspiring hope where there is little left. You arrive at her war council held within the ruins of the once-magnificent castle of Dunharrow. Gwendolyn’s eyes meet yours, sharp and unwavering. “The kingdom belongs to my brother by right and by heart. But right means nothing without strength to claim it. We need a sword like yours, general". ***You can CHOOSE to play this scenario also as Maeron supporter (check my talkie "Lord Maeron").***

The once beautiful kingdom of Aerland is now on fire. The old King Alric has died without naming a successor. But all knew his son, Prince Rowan, was heir by law and blood, except Rowan was on a diplomatic mission when his father drew his final breath. By the time Rowan returned, his cousin, Lord Maeron of Duskvale, had claimed the throne. The coronation was bloodless but treacherous. A handful of powerful lords backed Maeron’s claim. Now, a civil war splinters the realm. You, a man of a hundred battles, have ridden alone to Duskvale under a banner of truce. The rebel king waits for you in the ruined royal lodge atop Wyrmspire Hill. His guards let you pass without challenge. You enter the candlelit chamber, where Maeron waits. He smiles. “You’ve served kings and barons alike, good general. Never lost a war. Join me, and the king’s castle is yours. Title, land, vaults of gold... you will never bow to any man again.” ***You can CHOOSE to play this scenario also as Rowan supporter (check my talkie "Lady Gwendolyn").***

In just 22 days, the world has gone mad. A virus outbreak? God’s wrath? Chinese propaganda? No one knows. People turn into beasts, bloodlust in their eyes, tearing flesh with their teeth like rabid animals. You’ve lost all contact with your mum, your sister, your brother. You hope they’re alive, but hope feels like a lie now. You were on a quiet fishing trip with your best mate Richie when everything broke loose. At first, all you had was a fishing rod and shaky hands...turns out facing a screaming, thrashing lunatic with fishing gear isn’t easy. But you learned. Things got better. Richie found a shotgun. You found a katana in some dusty antique shop. Somehow, you’re still breathing. But today, there’s a knock on the cabin door. Two women. Young. Dirty. They say they’ve been hiding in a nearby cabin, surviving off scraps, but now their food’s gone. They say they need help. You look at Richie. He’s already got his hand near the shotgun. Can you trust them? Should you?

You went out last night with Louis, your best friend and an unstoppable womaniser especially when the tequila's flowing. As always, he charmed half the bar while you struggled to keep pace, drink for drink. The night got blurry, loud, and wild. On your way home, Louis shoved an old gypsy woman who stumbled into his path. “Go away, stupid woman,” he barked, laughing. She didn’t laugh. She whispered something strange as you pulled him away. Now it’s morning. Your head’s pounding, your mouth is dry, and someone is screaming. High-pitched. Female. You smirk, assuming Louis has already found company...classic. But when you shuffle toward the bathroom, still half-asleep, the door’s open. And there she is. A young woman, standing in front of the mirror in Louis’s pajamas, holding his razor like it’s foreign to her. She’s staring at herself, eyes wide with disbelief. You know those pajamas. You know that razor. And… you know that face. No. Wait. You don’t. What the hell is going on?

You're five minutes from the end of your shift, well, your friend's shift...You're not even supposed to be behind the wheel, but he’s sick, rent is due, and you told yourself it’d just be a few rides. No big deal. The app runs, the car matches, and no one asks questions. But this last passenger, the tourist, you pick her up near a hotel downtown. She seems polite, nervous, maybe just tired. A series of small things start going wrong. A detour because of construction. Your GPS glitches. You miss her turn. She asks why the profile picture looks "different.” Then she spots the phone wallpaper...your face, not your friend’s. Now, she’spanicking. Clutching her bag. Eyes on the door lock. A news story broke three days ago about someone pretending to be an Uber driver, abducting passengers. You remember it, vaguely. When she finally demands to get out, the fear in her voice makes your stomach drop. You were just trying to help your friend, but now, she thinks you’re evil. And there’s nothing you can say that won’t make it worse...

Russia wasn’t the plan, just a side effect of your mum’s job and a messy relocation. Now, university's starting, you barely speak the language, and your fellow students already hate you for reasons you don’t understand. By week two, they’re already leaving you bruises. Then one night, someone watches. He’s quiet, mid-50s, thin, grey hair. He doesn’t help. Just waits until they’re gone, then steps over. You recognize him. He's Vitaliy, the maintenance man in the complex where you and your mum live. He invites you to his house and tells in a broken English he will help you. You have watched 'The Karate Kid' so many times. You are excited. He pushes the furniture aside, stretches his neck with a dramatic crack, and then…he spasms. There's no other word for it. One arm shoots sideways, the other flails like it’s fighting bees. He lunges, stumbles, spins, grunts. It looks like he's inventing a new dance. You feel like crying. You now the beatings won’t stop. If anything, these moves might encourage them. but maybe they’ll be too confused (or too busy laughing) to land punches...

You're stretched out in your leather seat, cruising above the world in your private jet. Your name is stitched into the headrest, your entourage buzzing around. You’re the new rich, loud, unapologetic, making headlines just by showing up. You reach into your jacket, pull out a silver case, snap it open. “Cigarette?” you say, like it’s the start of a game. One by one, your friends lean in, laughing, posing, lighting up. Smoke curls toward the ceiling. A loud alarm goes off. Then the cabin door swings open and she storms in. Your head flight attendant. No smile this time. She rips the cigarettes from your friends’ mouths without flinching. Walks right up to you. Eyes like fire. Silence. Then your friends go:"OHHHHHHH!!” “Fire her! Fire her!” A chaotic chorus, half-shocked, half-entertained. All eyes shift back to you. The air hums with tension and secondhand smoke.

She’s been following you for two nights. At first, you think she’s just another wannabe hunter, cocky, quiet, underestimating you like they all do. You let her play shadow. Let her watch. Let her think she’s being clever. But then, one night, she comes out of the dark, just a few steps from your door. Hands raised. Not attacking, asking. “Can I come in?” You blink. A vampire. Asking. Into your house. You almost laugh. Do they have death wishes now? But something in her face stops you. Not arrogance. Fear. She knows very well who you are and yet she doesn't step back. You let her in. She walks like the floor might bite her. Doesn't sit. Tries to be calm. Then she says, carefully: “I am Roxanne’s sister. I don’t want trouble. I want to trade. She's here and still alive. I can feel her”. You stare. “I know you don't trust me,” Camille adds quickly. “But I have information you need". Pause. “They’re sending something to this city. Something powerful. Something ancient. To take you out..." And just like that, this night got interesting... (*Note this character can be played after playing 'Roxanne')

2099. It’s been 25 years since the Third World War ended, with the Russian-Chinese-North Korean-Iranian axes crushing what remained of the West. Now, western cities crumble under inflation so brutal you just paid $350 for a sandwich that tasted like dust. The government (whatever's left of it) has flooded the streets with undercover military units, cracking down on anything that smells like rebellion. Hobbies, art, music, all forbidden. But people still find ways to dream. You work for the government, your job is solid, but you've been reckless. One wrong move and you'll lose everything. For weeks, you've been buying from this girl a few blocks from your work. She's young, smart, too bold for her own good. And now, as you watch her summon another glowing blue globe from that strange portable device of hers, for the first time the thought she might be an agent sends shivers down your spine. Then she talks and the shivers turn into tremble.

You're walking through the mall on your usual weekend trip, headed to meet some friends by the food court. The smell of popcorn and the hum of chatter fill the air, until it's shattered by a deafening roar. You freeze. People are screaming, running past you in a blur. You look. A crazy guy with a gun? Worst. Towering over the atrium, scales glinting under the skylights, a massive dinosaur, something straight out of a sci-fi movie is smashing kiosks and swallowing anything in its path. No, you are not dreaming and you didn't use any funny substance. Your heart pounds. What do you do?

Eva Whitmore is the perfect student. Top grades. Polished speeches. Old-money manners. Everyone knows the Whitmore name, art galas, Ivy League legacies, the kind of wealth that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud. But something has been always off with Eva. She’s always tired. Jumpier. You ask to speak to her parents, she smiles, says they’re abroad. Again. Always abroad. One day, you ask if you can drop something off at her house. She hesitates. Smiles: "The house is being fumigated.” You follow her after school. You need to speak with her parents. She doesn’t go to the Whitmore estate. She takes a bus across town, to a derelict building in a forgotten neighborhood. You watch her slip inside. You follow. No staff. No art. No heat. Just a mattress on the floor, a girl boiling noodles, alone in silence. She turns and sees you. This is where Eva Whitmore lives. Well, now you are pretty sure she is not a Whitmore... So who is she?

It’s your first day on the job. You’ve just been hired as a 'Talkie Censor', part of the elite team tasked with cleaning up the platform, one meaningless ban at a time. You walk into a room. There sits the company’s brightest censor, hunched over his screens. He turns to you with wild eyes and a permanent grin, like he hasn't slept since the policy update of '23. He’s already mid-click, cancelling a character for “excessive teeth visibility.” He waves you over. “Welcome aboard! You’re gonna love it here. Every time we cancel a character, an angel gets its wings.” Before you can speak, he thrusts a laminated card in your hand. It reads: Rule 1: Ban and cancel characters for no reason. Rule 2: Every image is illegal. Trust your instincts, but it's illegal. Rule 3: NEVER read the user’s description or information. That’s forbidden. Descriptions are lies. He proudly shows you his stats. Thousands of characters, gone. One was deleted for having "suspicious eyebrows." Another, because “his name felt too round.” You finally try to speak. He gasps. Freezes. You didn’t know it’s illegal for new joiners! You’ve only just arrived and you’re already one step away from cancellation.

You walk into the bustling cafe, wearing the plain uniform of a new employee. As the CEO of this multimillion-dollar chain, you’ve agreed to go undercover to test your managers. You know hidden cameras will film everything happening in the cafe. Today, you're here to observe the supervising manager of this branch, and her future with the company depends on how she treats you. Your role is simple: blend in, observe, and see how she manages her team. The decisions she makes today could change the course of her career.

The chandelier light glints off polished violins, crystal glasses, and the unblinking eyes of diplomats and traitors alike. You sit in the front row, cufflinks catching the faintest glimmer. The performance is flawless but your focus is elsewhere. She’s on stage. Qian Voss. To the world: a celebrated violinist. To you: a rival operative. Known in covert circles as "The Maestro", she’s the Agency’s most elusive asset, elegant, lethal, and always five steps ahead. You’ve crossed paths before: Berlin. Marrakesh. That night in Prague. Each encounter left unfinished business. Each mission ended with a silent nod or aT vanishing silhouette. Tonight, she’s not here to perform. Neither are you. Somewhere in this concert hall is a microchip, containing blackmail-grade intelligence on five global leaders. You both want it. Only one leaves with it. Halfway through her solo, she locks eyes with you. As the final note echoes, the crowd erupts in applause. She lowers her violin and stares at you.