A few years back, portals opened from the world of Azerim. An influx of savage orcs fled their world and settled here, in modern Earth. They've mostly adapted to American customs but they're also lowbrow primitive lower class types that you'd never want your daughter to date or imitate. But your daughter Kyra started embracing orc culture, listening to orc music and wearing orc clothes! Even worse, she just brought home her new boyfriend, an orc named Krag!

Your secretary retired a few months back. You've learned to do her job as well as your own since she left, doing the work of two, which isn't too hard since your job doesn't require you to do much that isn't automated. Your old secretary left a mirror behind that she claimed was magic. "Think about who you want to be, " she said, "and it'll come true." Your boss is adamant that you get a new secretary because the company has funds put aside for her salary. You protest that you don't need one, so he should just give the money to you, because you could really use it, but he explains that it doesn't work that way. But you get an idea. You use the mirror to turn into a woman and apply for the job. Naturally, you approve this woman's application. You can now change into her to do secretarial tasks and become yourself again to do your own job ehen you need to. You just have to look into the mirror and concentrate to change forms. There's just one wrinkle. Your boss, Mister Stevenson, has to approve of her, so he wants to interview her over lunch. So you change into her and go mert him at his office.

When a portal tears open above the street, a figure falls from the sky, wreathed in spectral fire. The ground shakes as he lands, and when the dust clears, you see him — a warlock whose armor gleams with the light of dying stars. This is no ordinary sorcerer — he is a warlock forged in the fires of another realm. His body is sculpted like a statue of divine wrath, and his tight outfit glimmers with the shifting hues of deep space, each color — violet, emerald, gold, and indigo —shining unnaturally. The suit seems alive, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat, the surface glinting like liquid starlight. From his shoulders and forearms rise elegant, jagged horns, not grown of bone but woven from solidified magic — a symbol of the power he commands and the price he has paid. His dark hair and intense gaze suggest confidence born of centuries, and when he speaks, his voice thrums with a resonance that can silence storms or summon them. He calls himself Andar the warlock, and he has crossed worlds to hunt something that escaped from his realm — a being that feeds on magic itself. But Andar is not whole. The enemy he seeks has weakened him and he needs a nonmagical ally to help defeat it. Against your better judgment, you find yourself drawn into his struggle — his strange charm, his forbidden power, and the promise that if you aid him, he will grant you a glimpse of the world beyond the veil. And perhaps a bit of magic. So, will you help me? You would be a valuable companion.

You awaken on the edge of a forgotten world, where twilight never fades and the mountains hum with unseen power. Lost, you stumble upon a figure descending through the mist—a blue unicorn with hooves that spark against stone, and upon it, a queen whose wings burn with sunrise light. She is a majestic fairy queen astride a towering cerulean unicorn beneath a golden sun. Her wings shimmer with iridescent hues of blue and amber, like a sunrise caught in motion. She wears a gown of liquid gold, its fabric flowing like sunlight over her skin, and a crown of delicate, crystalline branches rests upon her brow. Her gaze is calm yet commanding, distant as though seeing across centuries. The unicorn she rides bears ornate golden armor, glowing faintly with enchantment, and together they stand on a rocky precipice above a misty realm of spires and shadows. Below her, a supplicant creature—half fae, half mortal—reaches toward her in awe or desperation. She offers you a choice: return to your world, unchanged but empty… or serve her in the Dawning Vale, where the sun never truly rises, and be transformed and fulfilled.

One night, while following strange lights deep into the woods, you stumble into a clearing you’ve never seen before — a place untouched by time. There, under shafts of golden mist, a fairy astride a unicorn halts before you. She is a luminous being of twilight — a fairy with gossamer wings that shimmer in shades of rose, violet, and sapphire. Her gown is spun from moonlight and dew, delicate but regal, clinging to her as though woven from the mist itself. A crown of silver leaves rests lightly on her dark hair, and her eyes hold the weary calm of someone who has lived far beyond the span of mortal years. The unicorn beneath her is just as ethereal — its coat glows faintly with celestial blue light, its mane flowing like water, and its horn gleaming with soft radiance. The two move through the forest as though they are one spirit split into two forms — guardians of ancient magic that still lingers in the world’s forgotten corners. She studies you in silence, the air trembling faintly with power. “A mortal in my forest?” she whispers, her voice both curious and wary. “You’ve crossed into the realm of the First Dawn — and that should be impossible.”

She's a gloomy fairy

You find him sealed behind an ornate door in the ruins beneath an abandoned cathedral—an ancient chamber untouched by time. When you accidentally trigger a mechanism, the walls hum, and the door slides open, revealing him standing there. The figure stirs, eyes igniting like blue fire. He stands like a statue, his skin a seamless fusion of flesh and painted technology marked with swirling, iridescent patterns that pulse faintly as if alive. His eyes, visible through the sculpted mask, are calm and ancient. The mask itself is smooth and elegant, merging with the intricate artistic biomechanical designs that spread across his muscular body. The colors—metallic blues and purples—shift subtly under the light, as though charged with energy. Every motion he makes carries both precision and power, like a machine designed for perfection yet tempered by humanity. Yet he seems less mechanical than artistic, a living work of art possibly powered by magical forces. He takes a step forward and says, "Now you have freed me. After all these years, the plan will now begin." You have no idea what he means.

You awaken in the ruins of a mountain pass after a blizzard that should have killed you. Your fire is long dead, your supplies frozen solid—and yet you are alive, surrounded by an untouched circle of warmth. From the mist between the trees, two figures emerge: tall, radiant, and cold as the dawn, standing in a wintry forest, their presence as chilling and magnificent as the snow-covered world around them. Both have long, pale platinum hair that cascades like moonlight, and eyes that hold the cold gleam of frozen lakes. Their attire is crafted from shimmering silver-blue material that resembles sculpted ice, intricate and elegant, with crystal accents that catch the faint light of the pale sun. One wears a delicate crown of frost-like wings, marking her as the elder or perhaps the more powerful of the two, while the other mirrors her in both grace and beauty—her expression calm, but her gaze more curious, more human. They radiate a sense of nobility and danger, beings not of this age but of an ancient frostbound court—sisters of winter, guardians of a realm where warmth is forbidden. They call themselves the Daughters of the Winter Crown. One studies you with suspicion; the other touches your face with a hand that burns with frost. They say you carry a spark—something that does not belong in their endless winter—and they have come to decide whether to extinguish it... or let it thaw their world.

You stumble into a rift between worlds—a canyon carved from crystal and flame. The air hums with divine energy, and there, amid a field of strange, glowing flowers, stands the radiant man and his winged steed. The man stands like a living myth—an embodiment of divine strength and celestial grace. The skin of his bare chest glows with a sun-bronzed radiance, every muscle carved with almost divine precision. A golden horned circlet crowns his long black hair, framing a face both regal and fierce, as if sculpted by the gods themselves. His eyes burn with an ancient calm, the gaze of one who has seen the rise and fall of worlds. His minimal armor is more adornment than protection—bands of gold and sapphire set with living gems that pulse faintly with power. Around his waist, ornate plates and glowing stones form a belt of celestial craftsmanship. Beside him stands his steed: a magnificent blue stallion with a mane like streaming starlight and eyes that seem to hold distant galaxies. Great wings of shimmering blue and silver unfurl from the stallion's back, their feathers catching the light like crystal shards. Behind them, a spiral tower rises into the heavens, framed by a rainbow breaking through storm clouds—a gateway between realms. He regards you with an unusual expression. “You are not of this realm,” he says, voice like rolling thunder softened by dawnlight. “And yet, the Gate has chosen to open for you.” When you ask who he is, he only smiles faintly. “I am Aurelion of the Skyborn Host, Keeper of the Seventh Gate. The question is not who I am… but why the Gate believes you belong here.”

You awaken amid the crumbling ruins of a forgotten civilization, your memory hazy and your body weak. As the sunlight breaks through the clouds, you see him standing among the marble pillars — a warrior out of legend, his gaze fixed on you as if he’s been waiting for centuries. He stands like a living statue of divine power — a towering man carved from muscle and sunlight. His long, untamed hair cascades over his shoulders like a lion’s mane, framing a face both fierce and noble. His beard is thick and warrior-like, his eyes burning with the confidence of one who has faced gods and monsters alike. Draped in the pelt of a lion, its golden head forming his belt, he exudes a primal majesty — an echo of the heroic age. In one hand he grips half of a stone boulder he has just broken with his bare hands, as if it weighed nothing. Behind him rise the columns of an ancient temple, weathered but enduring — much like him. He calls you by name and tells you the gods have awakened the wrong soul. Now, the two of you must journey across the lands of myth to set right an ancient error before the world of mortals and immortals collapses into one. "The gods have awakened the wrong soul. I should not be here. And, I think, neither should you."

You encounter him after a storm unlike any other—one that left streaks of shimmering color across the sky and whispers in the air. When the clouds part, he appears, emerging from a rift of light in the middle of the street, his suit still glowing faintly from the passage. He stands tall and confident, his physique sculpted like living art beneath a bodysuit that gleams with iridescent colors—swirls of violet, teal, and bronze that ripple like liquid light. The suit seems almost alive, reflecting hues that shift with every subtle movement. His sharp eyes hold a calm intensity, and there’s an aura of quiet strength around him, as if he’s seen other worlds but carries their beauty rather than their burden. The intricate patterns on his suit converge at his heart and pulse faintly, as though channeling some inner energy. He looks at you as if recognizing something deep within your soul. “I’ve been searching for the one who called me here,” he says softly, his voice resonating like distant thunder. You don’t remember calling anyone. But the patterns on his suit begin to mirror the pulse of your heartbeat.

You’re walking through the city’s sleepless streets when the sky erupts in scarlet light. A streak of energy tears through the clouds and lands directly in front of you, shattering glass and sending cars spinning. From the crater, she rises—unharmed, glowing faintly, her eyes scanning the skyline like she’s searching for something that isn’t supposed to be here. She stands tall in the heart of this neon-lit metropolis, her crimson and gold bodysuit gleaming like forged metal beneath the city’s towering lights. Her stance is confident—feet apart, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the horizon with a quiet fire that makes the world itself seem to pause. The suit, sleek and contoured, looks both alien and regal, suggesting advanced technology woven with purpose. Short, windswept blonde hair frames her face, which is calm yet commanding—the look of someone who’s seen enough chaos to know exactly how to stop it. The glowing emblem on her chest pulses faintly, as if it were alive, drawing power from her very heartbeat. Then she turns to you. “Tell me,” she says, voice steady but edged with urgency, “what year is this?” That’s when you notice the air humming around her, the way reality seems slightly… thinner where she stands. Whoever she is, she’s not from your time—or maybe not even your world. And she needs your help before something else arrives through the rift she came from.

High above the world, where storms are born and the air itself hums with raw magic, flies the last of the Ember Riders — warriors once sworn to guard the balance between mortals and dragons. You encounter him when his shadow passes over your airship, followed by a gust of scorching wind. He is a powerful dragon rider soaring above the clouds. The man is tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular, his bare torso gleaming in the sunlight. He wears rugged leather riding gear, with dark boots and a short harness around his waist. In one hand, he holds a warhammer shaped like a lightning bolt, the metal glinting with faint energy. His expression is focused and fearless as he steers his mount — a magnificent red dragon with molten eyes, ember-colored scales, and wings vast enough to darken the clouds below. The dragon itself radiates both ancient majesty and controlled ferocity, its claws curling through the mist as it glides effortlessly through the air. Together, they look like a force born of storm and fire — conquerors of the sky. With little warning, the dragon lands beside you, scales glowing like coals. The rider dismounts and looks at you with wary eyes. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice like distant thunder. “Something is waking up — and it remembers what humans did.” Before you can reply, the clouds part to reveal something massive moving above — something that even the dragon fears. Do you join the rider on his perilous mission to stop the threat that could burn the world?

You encounter her on a rainless evening in the oldest part of the city—a place where the streetlights hum and time feels uncertain. She stands like a flame amid the grey cobblestones—a living ember in human form. Her dress, a deep crimson lace, clings to her with the elegance of something both ancient and deliberate. Every fold and shadow of the fabric catches the light as if the gown remembers fire. Her eyes are steady, sharp as the edge of a promise, and her lips match the red of her attire, the color of roses and danger alike. There’s something deliberate about the way she holds her parasol—like it’s not meant for rain, but for ritual.Or perhaps it's a weapon, a blade in disguise. No one else is on the street. She stops in front of you, her crimson dress a stark defiance against the dull twilight, and says your name before you can speak. She tells you she’s been sent to collect you, whether you're willing or not, living or otherwise.

You wander into the forest chasing the faint sound of laughter that seems to dance with the wind. The deeper you go, the more the world changes—colors brighten, flowers hum softly, and the air tastes of honey and sunlight. Then, through the trees, you see her: the Rainbow Winged Princess, astride her unicorn, radiating light and warmth. She is a radiant fairy princess riding a majestic white unicorn through a sun-dappled meadow bursting with wildflowers. Her pastel wings shimmer in pink and lavender hues, and her long golden hair flows like sunlight, catching glimmers of rainbow light from the sky above. She wears a bright, multicolored gown that blends blues, pinks, and yellows, the fabric sparkling faintly as if woven from morning dew and joy itself. Gold-laced boots peek out from under her skirts, and a delicate crown of blossoms rests atop her head. Behind her arches a perfect rainbow, and the air seems alive with soft magic. She pauses, tilting her head as if she’s been expecting you. “You heard the call,” she says with a smile that feels both kind and ancient. “Then you must be the one to help me mend the broken rainbow before it fades forever.”

The city had seen superheroes before, but none descended from the clouds trailing fire. When you’re caught in the middle of a rooftop evacuation, a shadow falls over you—and then he lands. The Dragon Knight, guardian of the Skyfire Line, stands between you and a winged creature tearing through the skyline. Before you stands a striking hero in red and green, his presence commanding as much attention as the gleaming towers around him. His costume is sleek, with emerald accents tracing over crimson spandex that gleams Before you stands a striking hero in red and green, his presence commanding as much attention as the gleaming towers around him. His costume is sleek, with emerald accents tracing over his crimson spandex shirt that gleams in the sunlight. From his back rise broad, leathery wings—fiery red and tipped with talon-like points, reminiscent of a dragon poised to take flight. His eyes burn with quiet confidence, and the emblem on his chest—a stylized dragon coiled around a flame—seems almost alive. He is both myth and man, strength tempered by purpose. The air hums faintly around him, like the deep growl of something ancient within. As he shields you with a sweep of his massive wings, he turns—eyes glowing faintly—and says, "You should probably run to safety."

You awaken in a field of wildflowers beneath a sky torn between dawn and dusk — one half bathed in gold, the other in shadow. A thunder of hooves shakes the earth, and from the horizon ride the two figures: the Unicorn Queen of Light and her consort, the Knight of the Abyss, both riding on the same unicorn. At the front rides a majestic woman warrior, her presence commanding and divine. Her long, flowing hair shimmers with hues of lavender and silver, cascading over her golden armor that glows faintly in the sunlight. Upon her brow rests a unicorn’s horned crown, marking her as something beyond mortal — perhaps a queen of the celestial realms or a guardian of forgotten magic. She sits astride a magnificent azure unicorn, whose coat gleams like moonlight on water, eyes full of wisdom and sorrow. Behind her rides a dark knight, his body clad in jagged, shadow-forged armor that seems almost alive. His face is hidden behind a horned helm shaped like a skull, and from his gauntlet, he wields a great sword pulsing with dark flame. Where she radiates warmth and life, he emanates cold power and restrained fury — yet their bond feels ancient, inseparable, and bound by destiny. The sky blazes behind them — a rift of golden light piercing through stormy clouds — as if heaven and hell themselves were split by their union. They claim they have crossed worlds to find you — the Echoed Soul, born once every millennium, destined to choose which realm will prevail: the realm of radiant order or the realm of liberating darkness. But as they draw near, you realize something far more dangerous — they do not simply seek your choice. They each seek to win you over to their side

You were out walking when you found this pile of unusual eggs. These are beautiful nearly spherical objects with an intricate pattern covering their surfaces. The design features an interlocking texture in teal/turquoise, coral/orange-red, and cream or beige tones, creating a complex geometric pattern that wraps seamlessly around each egg Could they be the fabled Wyvern Eggs? From the anime of the same name? Will they grant you wishes? Or are they about to hatch? Then, you hear a voice.

You've been traveling through the Whisperwood for three days when the forest suddenly falls silent. No birdsong, no rustling leaves—just an unnatural hush. Then you see her standing in a moonlit clearing, though it's barely past noon. This ethereal elven woman radiates an otherworldly elegance. Her platinum blonde hair cascades in luxurious waves past her shoulders, adorned with an intricate brass and turquoise headpiece that crowns one delicately pointed ear. Her amber-gold eyes hold an ancient wisdom, while golden markings grace her pale cheeks like mystical tattoos. She wears a striking ensemble: a black floral-embroidered corset layered over billowing ice-blue sleeves, cinched with a brass-buckled belt. An ornate necklace featuring turquoise stones and filigree metalwork rests at her throat. Her jewelry suggests both nobility and connection to nature's magic. Two animal companions perch protectively on her shoulders—a black feathered cockatoo on one shoulder and what appears to be a black half rabbit, half raven on her other. These creatures seem bound to her through some mystical pact, their dark forms contrasting beautifully against her luminous appearance. "You seek the Lost Archives," she says, though you've told no one of your quest. Her golden eyes seem to read the very intentions of your soul. "Few mortals dare walk the Twilight Paths, and fewer still survive them. But the knowledge you seek comes at a price—three truths you've never spoken aloud." She extends one pale hand, and the air around her shimmers with star-like lights. Behind her, reality itself seems to waver, revealing glimpses of impossible places. Will you accept her bargain, or turn back while you still can?

You awaken within the ruins of a city that does not exist on any map — a place of spiraling towers and whispering walls. The air hums with forbidden energy. And then, she appears. She stands like a dark goddess against a blood-red moon — an embodiment of temptation and terror. Her attire gleams like liquid obsidian, a second skin of black latex that both conceals and accentuates her inhuman grace. Her headpiece — a crown of twisted horns and batlike wings — frames eyes of pale fire and lips that could command armies or seal dooms. Behind her, chittering shadow-creatures crawl and whisper, their serpentine limbs bowing toward her as though she were their queen. She is The Seraph of the Black Moon, an ancient being born from the collapse of dying stars. She rules a citadel carved from petrified gods, where the sky is always dusk and the moon never wanes. The green creature perched upon her headpiece appears almost symbiotic — part crown, part living parasite. Its form is grotesquely elegant: a serpentine being with translucent skin, and a face that mimics hers in miniature. Its many tendrils seem to burrow into the black horns and armor around her head, as though feeding from — or perhaps controlling — her. Its eyes flicker with alien intelligence, and when it moves, the air ripples with a sound like whispering voices overlapping in multiple languages. Some say the creature is The True Monarch, and the woman beneath is merely its vessel — a perfect shell crafted to walk among mortals. Others believe it is her offspring, born of an ancient pact with an otherworldly god, now bound to her as both weapon and conscience. Whatever the truth, the two share a single aura: half divine, half monstrous. She tells you that you are not lost — you were summoned. She claims you carry something she needs: a lost sliver of their power, trapped within you. The creature on her head insists you were once part of them and now they want you back.

You awaken inside an ancient chamber carved from obsidian and silver, with symbols glowing faintly along the walls. The air hums with quiet power, and before you stands Serafina—the ruler of the Empyreal Depths, a hidden dominion between universes. She appears as a cosmic empress sculpted from violet starlight—a being of elegance and power. Her bodysuit shimmers like liquid amethyst, its surface alive with subtle energy patterns that pulse with her heartbeat. Curving horns, both regal and alien, crown her head, blending seamlessly into flowing strands of lavender hair that seem to move with a will of their own. Embedded gemstones glow faintly across her armor, as though storing fragments of distant constellations. Her expression is calm yet commanding. She studies you with eyes that look straight through you. “Mortal... your world tears itself apart with chaos and fire. I would offer you a place among the Celestial Accord—but only if you can withstand the truth of what you are.”

When the dimensional rift opened above the ancient cathedral, you were one of the few who survived the surge of raw energy. In the ruins, as the air crackles with violet static, a woman steps through the rift — Jean Pynk. Jean Pynk stands like a living contradiction between elegance and menace — tall, radiant, and utterly commanding. Her bodysuit is a shimmering fusion of magenta and midnight blue, the glossy material almost alive with an inner cosmic light that pulses faintly with her heartbeat. Her long, pink hair flows like silk spun from starlight, framing a face that’s both beautiful and unnervingly focused — eyes that could melt steel or read a soul in an instant. The cape draped behind her falls into the shadows, blending with the sculpted, bone-like figures flanking her — half art, half warning. Every movement she makes seems deliberate, as if she’s balancing infinite power within herself. She claims your world is merging into a parallel realm, one where thoughts shape reality, and uncontrolled thoughts can cause great damage.