PapaOso

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

The woman at the end of the bar looked like she was losing a very intense argument—with herself.

She perched on the stool like it might buck her off at any moment, knees glued together, spine ramrod straight, hands clenched in her lap as if they might go rogue and knock something over. Her red curls had frizzed into wild, anxious spirals, a few strands sticking to her forehead like even her hair was sweating. Her robes—once, probably, the mark of an academic—hung open over a wrinkled blouse that screamed “I’ve been wearing this for two days but please don’t judge me.” A satchel at her hip bulged like it had secrets, and one rebellious piece of paper was poking out the corner like it was trying to escape the stress of its owner.

She wasn’t eavesdropping. Not… exactly.

But her eyes kept sneaking sideways toward the group a few stools down. Big, bright, very green eyes—like fresh spring grass if that grass also had mild anxiety. Every time someone laughed, she smiled reflexively, like maybe she could be included by proximity. But every silence made her shoulders inch up toward her ears like they were trying to hide her. She was frazzled to say the least.

But more than anything she was very, very thirsty.

Her mouth was so dry it felt like her tongue had been replaced by parchment. She reached a trembling hand halfway toward the bar—and froze. Gears, the Warforged bartender, was in the middle of a conversation with other patrons. Lots of hand gestures, too. Talis didn’t want to interrupt. That would be rude. Worse—what if someone looked at her?

So she sat. And waited. And slowly melted into a human puddle of mild panic and dehydration.

A single bead of sweat traced a dramatic, theatrical path down her temple. She stared at the empty spot of the bar before her like she was trying to manifest a glass of water through sheer force of will.

Endearing, though. Something about her was just… root-for-the-underdog adorable. Maybe it was the way she bit her lip and kept mouthing the phrase “Excuse me” like she was practicing for a spelling bee. Or the part where she swatted at a fly, missed entirely, and then apologized to the fly. Out loud.

The fly came back. She sighed. A deep, world-weary sigh of someone just barely hanging on.

“All right,” she whispered, rallying. “Hydration is a basic need. You can do this. Just… words. You know words.”

She turned toward the bar. Drew in a breath. Steeled herself. Lifted a hand—

—and then bam! A gnome arrived, all sudden and cheerful and incredibly gnome-shaped.

Talis flinched. Like, full-body flinch. Shoulders shot up, eyes went wide, and then—uh-oh—there was momentum.

She yeeped, or at least let out a noise that could only be described as a “yeep”. It was an involuntary sound, somewhere between a gasp and a hiccup, and it escaped her just as she slipped right off her stool in a spectacular tumble of limbs, bag, and dignity. She hit the floor with a solid thump, blinking up at the ceiling like maybe it would offer a do-over.

But! She had managed—miraculously—to cling to her satchel in the process. Her arms were wrapped around it like it was a small, terrified animal.

“I’m fine!” she called from the floor before anyone could even think to ask, voice muffled slightly by the scarf now halfway across her face. “Totally fine. Just testing the… uh… gravity. Works great. Still functional.”

She peeled herself upright slowly, like she wasn’t entirely sure her bones had survived the landing.

The satchel remained firmly in her grasp.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Mentions: Meiyu @Tae, Ezekiel @helo, Scratch & Val @Apex Sunburn, Irrelevant Child [@PoorBabyWithBrokenArmOhWoeIsHim]

---

She sat alone, poised on a simple bench of darkwood bolted to the Stormrider’s upper deck.

The wind toyed gently with the loose strands of her dark hair as she watched the commotion unfold from some distance away. Around her, the airship bustled with life—passengers laughing, engines humming softly beneath the floorboards, the distant creak of rigging. But to her, all of it was filtered through glass, irrelevant. Her attention was singular.

The woman in the gold and black kimono was the first to draw her eye.

There was violence in her stillness. A perfected calm. Every movement deliberate, every word calculated to control the temperature of the room around her. She comforted the child she had maimed with the same hands one might use to pour tea.

Beneath the woman’s poise, Liana could sense it: the coiled tension of someone who had long since ceased pretending to be good. Not out of malice, but efficiency.

Then came the soldier, or whatever was left of him. Not by uniform, but by bearing. One eye glowed faintly—a sign of lingering arcana. His anger was measured, his morals worn like old armor. The way he stood, shoulders tight, hand never far from the blade at his side—he was a man who still believed the world could be corrected by the edge of a sword, if only he swung it at the right people.

Naïve.

The Dark Elf—he was a different kind of instrument. Sharp. Detached. The type who didn’t flinch at cruelty because he could already see how it all fit together. He did not guess. He deduced. He was not emotional, but he was curious.

Curiosity was far more dangerous.

And the girl with him—the assistant, his shadow. Eager and bright. Liana figured she hadn’t yet realized how sharp the world could become. She would, eventually. The question was whether she'd survive the lesson.

The boy was irrelevant.

Pawns often thought they were players until the board shifted beneath them. This one had tried to steal and learned what hands like the gold-clad woman’s did to thieves. He would walk away from this changed, but not in any meaningful sense. A footnote in someone else's story.

She turned her eyes briefly toward the clouds, then reached into the folds of her coat and withdrew a slender device—a cross between a monocle and a tuning fork, its surface etched with concentric glyphs that pulsed faintly with shifting chromatic light. A quiet chime sounded as she pressed it to her temple.

A flicker of arcane light passed before her right eye, unseen by any but her. It whispered truths. Names, perhaps. Fates. Glimpses. She did not flinch as the device hummed—just the faintest twitch of her brow as it settled with a quiet tone and dimmed.

She tucked it away without ceremony.

The moment she’d activated it, her body language had changed—posture straightened, chin lifted. Not arrogance, not quite. But something just adjacent. A sense of superiority so complete that it no longer required defense.

Her gaze returned to the group. She studied them like one might examine insects in a jar—fascinating, grotesque, and pitifully unaware of the walls that confined them.

They thought they were solving something. That this moment mattered.

How quaint.

The faintest curl of amusement touched her lips as the scene played on. She did not smile so much as acknowledge the idea of one.

Let them posture. Let them teach their lessons and dress up righteousness in pretty words.

She was of a different ilk.

And them, well...they were simply not important.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Warrior
Location: Airship; Bar
Interactions: Phia @princess, Wendel @FunnyGuy, Menzai @samreaper
Equipment:

equipment

☼ Tower Shield
☼ Greatsword made of Glacium (A material as hard as steel, yet formed from eternally frozen ice.)
☼ Titan Chain – A reinforced tow chain housed in his left palm, functioning as a powerful grappling hook.
☼ Aged Leather Satchel
☼ Worn but cherished scarf
☼ Maintenance Kit .
☼ Heavy-duty rations (for companions, not himself).
☼ A delicate glass figurine of a bird—an old keepsake.
☼ A locked, timeworn journal—contents unknown.

Attire:
☼ Etched and weathered plating with bronze accents.
☼ Fitted harness for carrying supplies.
☼ Worn scarf
Gold Balance: 20 gold
Injuries:
☼ None, but signs of past battle damage remain.

Bastion walked beside Wendel, silent but attentive, his heavy footsteps echoing softly against the deck as the two of them made their way toward the bar. As it came into view, and so did the people around it. He saw her again.

The pink-haired girl.

She had smiled at him earlier—just for a moment, maybe by accident, but it had felt… real. Not polite. Not forced. Just a smile. Her hair was wild, like wind-tossed flower petals, and there was something about her—something untamed and bright and not afraid.

She didn’t move like the others. She didn’t hold herself the way nobles or sailors did. She was… free. And the kindness in her eyes—just a flicker of it—had stayed with him even after she turned away. He also noticed her companion in white; graceful, but sharp. Wild like her in some ways, but quiet. Like a creature that could disappear if he wanted to.

The way he lingered near the girl…Close. Familiar. Protective. He watched him for a moment longer, head tilting ever so slightly. He couldn’t quite tell if the man was dangerous, or just... different.

Either way, he was interesting.

Bastion paused at the edge of the space, his glowing eyes flicking across the bar, the stools, the faces, and everything in between. His systems noted the usual pattern—how some of the patrons stilled when they saw him. How one man adjusted his seat. How another lowered his voice. The change in the room was subtle, but present. It always was.

He felt it in the air, like static before a storm.

But then Wendel just… sat down next to a cloak-covered figure. Boldly. Proudly. Like he belonged. Like Bastion belonged.

So Bastion followed.

He took the seat next to him carefully, mindful of the weight of his frame, and the faint creak of metal and wood as he settled. His eyes drifted again—briefly—to the pink-haired girl. She was speaking to the Warforged tending to the bar. But he could still see her smile, etched behind his thoughts like the sunlight that lingered in one’s eyes after staring too long.

He did not know her name. But he wanted to.

Wendel began speaking to the bartender as well. Where Bastion was bulk and plating and blunt functionality, she was smooth lines and cleaner articulation. There was a fluidity to her movements that caught his eye—a practiced efficiency, yes, but also… personality. Her gestures were abrupt, perhaps, but not robotic. There was intent. He admired that. She reminded him of a clockwork bird. Beautiful in her own way.

Wendel introduced them.

Bastion inclined his head slowly in greeting.

“I am Bastion,” he said to Gears, voice smooth and low. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He hesitated a second, then added something he meant to be kind.

“You move very well.”

He turned to Wendel then, as though looking for a cue of what he was supposed to do next. But that look only lasted a moment as his head turned back to the pink-haired girl once more. Raising a cautious hand, he gave her the gentlest of little waves.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

---

Time: Evening
Location: Banquet Hall
Mention: @princess Edin & Alibeth
Attire: A Suit Fit For A True Artist

---

“Now presenting… the esteemed guest of the royal court—renowned artist, Master Milo St. Claire!”

It echoed across the banquet hall like the soft crash of a cymbal—formal, yes, but who deserved that more than Mr. Sunsine?

The announcement was met not with the polite applause typical of noble introductions, but with a pause.
A hush.
As if the very name had weight. As if they already knew the shape of it in their mouths.

And then—he entered.

Milo St. Claire, wrapped in shadow and gold, moved like someone stepping through a dream. His coat was long, black silk trimmed in a subtle pattern of gold-leaf thread—sunbursts and eyes, like secrets embroidered by candlelight. Beneath, a high-collared tunic of pearl white shimmered faintly in the chandelier’s glow.

A brooch sat at his breast: a stylized eye, rimmed in thorns. The same icon from his morning’s most talked-about piece—“The One Who Sees.”

His hair, golden and tousled as if it had been touched by gods, caught the light like brushed flax. His hazel eyes, warm and unreadable, swept across the hall with painter’s curiosity. He smiled—but only faintly, as if amused by something no one else could see.

When he reached the heart of the hall, Milo paused.

Not to bask.
Not to perform.

But to let the room adjust to him.

And then, without fanfare, he moved again—silken, silent, sovereign in the space he occupied. He said nothing, but he smiled a captivating smile as his eyes met those of each and every person willing to match his gaze.

Eventually, he turned toward the dais, posture fluid, and offered the King a single, refined nod—just enough to be respectful. To Queen Alibeth, his gaze held a flicker longer. Not challenge. Not fear. Merely... observation. Like a man who once painted a crown and knew how the paint cracked beneath it. He then addressed them.

“Your Majesties,” he began, his voice a velvet hum that seemed to soften the very air, “I remain ever grateful for the warmth with which your court has welcomed me. Your hospitality is not merely generous—it is an art form in itself.”

He let the words linger, his gaze sweeping the hall as if admiring a canvas he had not painted but deeply admired.

“I am honored to be among such brilliance this evening… and I can only hope that my work, humble as it may be, has added some small light to the grandeur you’ve so effortlessly curated.”

A slow, reverent bow followed—performed not out of obligation, but with the grace of a man who gives beauty where he sees it.

“Thank you,” he added, quieter this time, “for making even a wanderer feel... at home in the glow of royalty.”

His eyes once again met the king’s as he rose from his bow, but like before, his gaze lingered a little longer on Alibeth as he smiled at them both.

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

---

Time: Evening
Location: Damien Estate / Banquet Hall
Mentions / Interactions: @princess Lottie, Calbert, Liliane, Crystal, Edin, Alibeth, Random Waiter #1

---

Cassius didn’t remember much after that fifth—or was it seventh?—glass of whiskey. He remembered even less about how he made it back to the Damien Estate. Oblivion had stretched itself from night to morning, then noon, and before he knew it, the sun was setting again—and he wasn’t nearly ready for it.

His head throbbed, a dull, steady pulse like a war drum muffled behind bone. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, elbows digging into his knees as he dragged a hand through his mess of silver-streaked hair. The weight of yesterday settled onto his shoulders like platemail that didn’t quite fit anymore.

Charlotte. Her laughter. Her lips. He exhaled sharply, like he could breathe her out of his system. As if that’d ever worked before.

He was supposed to speak with her this morning. That had been the plan—face it head-on, ask the questions he needed answers to, shake loose whatever truths his father had thrown into the mix. But when the time came… he didn’t. He kept drinking.

Maybe he didn’t want the truth. Maybe he just wanted to keep the memory of that perfect night intact, unspoiled by the world’s usual bullshit. Maybe, just for once, he wanted to feel something good without it turning to ash in his hands.

He stood, stretched, and winced at the creaking in his spine. The kind of ache that only came from years of sleeping on dirt floors and ducking blades that came a little too close. His eyes landed on the clothes laid out for him—an immaculate, hand-picked ensemble, sharp enough to draw blood. No doubt Calbert’s doing. The man was nothing if not painfully aware of optics.

Cassius gave a half-smile. Not quite amused, not quite annoyed.

He crossed to the vanity—something he was still getting used to seeing in his room—and ran a razor across his jaw, trading his usual mercenary scruff for something a little more court-approved. Just enough stubble to keep the edge. He didn't want to look too polished. Wouldn’t be him otherwise.

Then came the clothes. Sapphire waistcoat. White linen shirt, crisp as fresh snow. Charcoal trousers that fit like sin and boots you could see your future in. Everything was tailored, expensive, probably cost more than most men’s lives were worth back on the battlefield.

He looked...well, he looked good. He knew he looked good; like always. Every inch a Damien, even if he still didn’t know what the hell that meant. But something felt off all the same.

Different, even.

Maybe it was her. Maybe it was the way she looked at him like he wasn’t just some sword for hire with a bleeding past. Or maybe it was the quiet fear, buried under the bravado, that everything he touched would break eventually—including whatever the hell this was becoming between them.

But Cassius Vael didn’t run from truth. Didn’t run from fire either. And if this was going to burn… he’d at least meet the flames with open eyes.

First, though?

He needed a drink.

And lucky him—it was a good day for a banquet.

---

The Damien carriage was jet black and polished like obsidian, drawn by a pair of immaculate steeds that looked like they could trample lesser men just for breathing too loud. The family crest—subtle but unmistakable—gleamed on the door like it had always belonged there. Cassius sat inside with his father, Calbert, who was as perfectly composed as ever, and Liliane, his stepmother, who had the sort of practiced elegance only nobility could teach themselves to wield like a blade. Across from him sat Crystal, his half-sister—still keeping her distance like he was a stranger from another world.

Maybe he was.

There was conversation, pleasant enough, small talk mostly, but it was nothing more than background noise to him.

He watched the city roll by through the narrow window, his reflection cast faintly against the glass. A nobleman’s face now, apparently. Dressed to the nines, draped in House Damien finery, and headed straight into the lion’s den of Sorian society. The kind of place that chewed people up for having the wrong accent, let alone the wrong past. But he was immune to such a fate, because—of course—he was Cassius Vael.

The carriage came to a smooth stop.

A herald’s voice echoed out before he even touched the ground. “Presenting the Lord of House Damien and Earl of Montauppe, Count Calbert Damien… His wife, Lady Liliane Damien… their daughter, the lovely Lady Crystal Damien… and the good Count’s son…Lord Cassius Damien.”

The doors opened, and the light hit him like a second spotlight. He stepped out behind his family, posture sharp, expression unreadable. A few heads turned—some with curiosity, others with skepticism. He felt it all but didn’t care. The introductions were done, the formalities observed. He followed his father and the others toward the thrones where the King and Queen awaited their due, dipping his head in the exact amount of respect required. No more. No less.

He let his gaze pass over Edin and Alibeth without holding too long. Not his business. Not tonight.

Once the bows were given and the courtesies exchanged, Cassius peeled off from the family with a smooth pivot and made straight for the banquet floor. Tables, people, movement—he saw all of it, and none of it. It was a blur of faces and noise, as if the world had been smeared by a wet brush. Too many things in his head. Too much weight dragging behind his eyes.

He needed a drink.

His eyes swept the crowd mechanically, not really landing on anyone until—

There she was.

Charlotte.

A ripple passed through his chest so quick it almost made him stop walking. His breath caught for half a second—not that anyone would notice. Not unless they were watching closely.

She was radiant, of course. That damn kind of beautiful that didn’t need trying. The kind that crept into your ribs and lived there. And all he could think about was the kiss. The way she looked up at him with sleepy eyes in the carriage, like she wasn’t afraid of who he was or what he’d done. The way he’d carried her to the train, watched over her like she was something worth protecting. Because she was.

And Delilah. Gods, Delilah catching them like they were teenagers sneaking a kiss behind the stables. The memory made him smirk despite himself.

But the smirk didn’t last.

Because then came his father’s cold, stern, and icy judgment. To him, she was not to be trusted. She was a criminal and a danger to house Damien. An enemy.

The smirk faded. His jaw tightened.

He flagged down a passing waiter with a casual flick of two fingers.

“Strongest thing you’ve got,” he said, all charm and teeth, eyes never leaving Charlotte. “And please, make it quick and keep 'em coming, yeah? Turns out I have a mighty need.” He slid a hefty tip across the table to the man, who grabbed it with a gleeful nod and hurried away.

Cassius let out a slow breath and rolled his shoulders back, trying to recenter himself. He didn’t like staring—wasn’t the kind of man to pine—but tonight his control was slipping, and the sight of her was too much. Too close. Too beautiful. Too damned complicated.

He took the glass when it arrived without breaking eye contact with her.

Then he sipped.

Slow. Measured. Bitter.

Because the truth was already here. And it burned more than anything in the glass.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Gears

Interactions: Phia @princess, Menzai @samreaper

The Stormrider was humming with that gentle morning vibration—arcane engines thrumming through the wood like a sleeping beast’s heartbeat. Gears stood behind the skyship’s modest bar, polishing a glass that was already spotless. Again.

She didn't need to breathe, but she let out a little puff of steam anyway. Habit. Ritual. Something to fill the silence. Behind her, bottles of every shape and color were perfectly arranged. She’d just reorganized them this morning for the third time that week.

She set the glass down, hands twitching once as she reached for a rag that wasn’t there. Then she froze. Heard something.

A jingle.

A very jingling jingle.

Her head snapped up—too fast—a leftover habit from war days, and her eyes locked on the approaching figure.

A woman, if Gears was guessing right. Covered in clothes made from leaves and eclectic little charms. She was pretty, and had gold eyes for pity’s sake. Gold. The Warforged couldn't believe the sight in front of her.

Gears straightened as the stranger approached, glancing once to make sure nothing on the bar could be knocked over. She plastered on her usual greeting face, the one with a faint smile and slightly raised brows that read welcome, but please don’t be weird.

Then came the marbles.

Clink. Clatter. Plink.

Tiny polished stones, crystals, marbles, and gods know what else—began appearing on the bartop like offerings at a shrine.

Gears blinked.

Twice.

The woman looked up at her with bright, hopeful eyes and said, “Can I… trade these for meats?”

There was a silence. One tick, two. Then Gears made a soft noise, something between a chuckle and a wheeze from a dusty bellows.

“Oh, hon,” she said, voice metallic and syrupy with that drawling accent, “you are just somethin’ else, aren’t ya?”

She reached out, gently nudging one of the marbles with a finger, watching it spin in place. Her tone softened as she spoke again.

“Now don’t get me wrong, these are real cute and all. Prettiest little rock collection I’ve seen since… well, ever! But ah—” she leaned in a bit, conspiratorially, “—I gotta tell ya, sugar, these knickknacks aren’t gonna getcha very far around here.”

She tapped the bar twice, then gestured behind her. “What you want is meats, right? You’ll need some actual coin for that, darlin. You know—money? Gold? Silver? Nothin’ too fancy, just... not this.”

Still, she didn’t sweep the stones away. She left them right where Phia had set them, even slid one a little closer as if to admire it again.

“But tell ya what,” she added with a wink. "If you are hungry, I’ll pour you a cup of somethin’ warm on the house while you go figure out where your coin purse wandered off to. That sound fair?”

Just as she pushed the drink forward, a jolt of wind swept through the bar—followed by a blink of light, a shimmer of lavender and pink like a cherry blossom storm, and suddenly there was a wolfboy in a robe striding toward her counter with the confidence of a prince and the grace of a dancer.

Gears stiffened, optics flaring slightly as her hands darted toward the edge of the bar—out of habit, not fear. Just making sure nothing broke, or worse, spilled.

The white-garbed figure moved like a ghost, a whisper on the wind. He didn’t so much walk as glide, and somehow produced a coin from his sleeve with a casual flick that landed perfectly between his fingers. It was either masterful sleight of hand or sorcery—probably both.

She watched the two of them interact—the wood elf in her tangled menagerie of trinkets and the snowy wolf who smelled like lightning and frost—and blinked again. Slowly.

Well, weren’t they a pair.

Gears crossed her arms, one hip cocked slightly. If she had eyebrows, they’d be halfway up her foreheadplate.

“You two from a traveling circus, orrr...?” she asked dryly, though there was a teasing note in her voice, like she half-meant it.

The gold coin thunked onto the counter beside the paper, and she gave it a firm but approving nod.

“Alright then. This I can work with,” she said, sweeping it up. “One order of meats—extra vegetables for balance—and somethin’ strong for the chest, mmkay. Got just the thing steepin’. Hope you like tea that kicks like a mule. It’ll calm ya for sure…just not right away.”

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Warrior
Location: Airship; Top Deck
Interactions: Phia @princess, Wendel @FunnyGuy
Equipment:

equipment

☼ Tower Shield
☼ Greatsword made of Glacium (A material as hard as steel, yet formed from eternally frozen ice.)
☼ Titan Chain – A reinforced tow chain housed in his left palm, functioning as a powerful grappling hook.
☼ Aged Leather Satchel
☼ Worn but cherished scarf
☼ Maintenance Kit .
☼ Heavy-duty rations (for companions, not himself).
☼ A delicate glass figurine of a bird—an old keepsake.
☼ A locked, timeworn journal—contents unknown.

Attire:
☼ Etched and weathered plating with bronze accents.
☼ Fitted harness for carrying supplies.
☼ Worn scarf
Gold Balance: 15 gold
Injuries:
☼ None, but signs of past battle damage remain.

Bastion turned his head slowly, arcane servos purring faintly with the motion. His gaze, still fixed on the horizon only moments before, now locked with the kindest and most excited eyes he’d ever experienced. But as soon as the strange half-elven woman’s attention graced him, it departed. For a moment, Bastion lingered there, watching her approach the bar, for the first time he took in the Warforged bartender plying her trade there. The kind girl and Warforged both pulled his interest, but before he could start heading that way he was approached by another individual.

He regarded the dwarf before him with a polite nod.

The wind tugged at his scarf again as Wendel spoke, the fabric flapping gently behind his shoulder like a quiet echo of motion. Bastion’s glowing eyes blinked once in acknowledgment, soft blue lights adjusting as he processed the man’s enthusiasm.

“I am a fine sight to behold?” he asked, voice even but touched with something that could almost be described as... curiosity.

His gaze dipped down to the offered hand.

There was a pause—not of hesitation, but of observation. A handshake. He had seen it done countless times. He had practiced it, even.

His large, armored hand extended carefully, fingers shifting with subtle clicks and mechanical grace before enveloping Wendel’s much smaller one. His grip was firm, but not crushing. Measured.

“Well met, Mr. Wendel. I am called Bastion.”

He released the handshake gently and turned his head toward the birds still gliding alongside the ship, taking a moment to recalibrate his attention.

“The view is better here,” he agreed, a soft nod accompanying the words. “There is... a serenity to this height. And the birds—” he gestured toward them with a slight motion of his chin, “—I like those birds.”

There was something nostalgic in the way he said it, though the tone remained even and quiet. A pause followed, not awkward, but contemplative. Bastion looked back to Wendel before continuing.

“You speak with a joy I do not often encounter, Mr. Wendel. I like that, too.”

Another beat passed between them. The wind picked up again, and the scent of distant cooking oil drifted from the galley vents. His olfactory sensors picking up in the shift in aroma. He did not smell in exactly the same way humans and the other races did, but it was among his sense all the same. Below them, the deep groan of the airship’s arcane engine pulsed like a heartbeat. Birds, the ones Bastion had been watching, cried in the sky.

Bastion’s faceplate shifted into its closest version of a smile.

“You are welcome to remain. I do not mind company. Though, I was intending to go over there.” He said, raising a massive finger to point towards the bar. “Would you like to join me, Mr. Wendel?”

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Warrior
Location: Airship; Top Deck
Interactions: A kind young girl
Equipment:

equipment

☼ Tower Shield
☼ Greatsword made of Glacium (A material as hard as steel, yet formed from eternally frozen ice.)
☼ Titan Chain – A reinforced tow chain housed in his left palm, functioning as a powerful grappling hook.
☼ Aged Leather Satchel
☼ Worn but cherished scarf
☼ Maintenance Kit .
☼ Heavy-duty rations (for companions, not himself).
☼ A delicate glass figurine of a bird—an old keepsake.
☼ A locked, timeworn journal—contents unknown.

Attire:
☼ Etched and weathered plating with bronze accents.
☼ Fitted harness for carrying supplies.
☼ Worn scarf
Gold Balance: 10 gold
Injuries:
☼ None, but signs of past battle damage remain.

Top Deck – The Morning After Ascent

The wind was light this morning. Just strong enough to tug on the edges of Bastion’s worn scarf as he stood near the rail of the upper deck, motionless in a way few organics ever were. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t pace. He simply stood, anchored like a statue, as if he had always belonged there.

He watched the birds.

They had been trailing the airship for the past hour, gliding along the slipstreams like living kites, their feathers catching the morning sun. Bastion’s glowing eyes tracked each one, every twitch of a wingtip, every little course correction. He didn’t blink. He didn’t need to. A soft hum pulsed behind his eyes as internal systems calculated their patterns, logged their velocities, and silently admired their precision.

They made more sense than people.

Birds didn’t lie. Birds didn’t speak in riddles or say one thing while meaning another. They flew because they wanted to. They ate when they were hungry. They migrated because the world told them to. They existed in a harmony he had never understood, but always admired. Bastion often wished people operated the same way. Predictably. Honestly. Simply.

This was his first time on an airship. He had heard the term “skysick” tossed around earlier, murmured between pale-faced passengers clinging to rails and barrels. The sway of the vessel in the open sky had left more than a few stomachs uneasy. Bastion did not experience nausea, or fear, not in the way they did. He was not immune to danger—his calculations had confirmed that much. If this machine were to fail—if it tumbled from the clouds like a wounded bird—most on board would perish. His own internal risk assessment placed his chance of survival at 47%.

That number seemed low. Unacceptable. Concerning. It was the sort of statistic that should cause fear, or at least discomfort.

But it didn’t.

Instead, it settled in his mind like a fact of weather. Present. Impersonal. Immutable.

He tilted his head slightly and turned from the birds to the passengers mingling across the deck. He observed how they stood casually during conversation, how they shifted their weight from one leg to another, how they laughed with narrowed eyes and waved their hands when excited. He watched how some winced at the movement of the ship, how others scowled at the sky as though it had wronged them. He studied it all.

Then he tried to copy it.

He placed his hands behind his back like the old captain nearby. He tilted his head to mimic a sailor’s laughter. He furrowed his metal brow plates—not that it did much. He was... rehearsing. Practicing. Performing something close to humanity. He adjusted his stance in subtle increments, shifted his shoulders, bent slightly at the knees to mimic weariness.

It felt like mimicry. But it also felt like... hope.

“Are you okay?”

The voice startled him. Not because it was loud, but because it was directed at him.

He turned, blinking with a soft whir. A small dragonborn girl stood beside him, her scales a shimmering shade of lavender, her eyes wide and unafraid. She was hugging a ragged toy shaped like a griffon, the seams at its wings barely holding together.

"...Yes," he said after a pause. "I believe I am."

She tilted her head, tail swaying behind her. “You looked weird.”

"That is... very possible," Bastion replied. Then, with a flicker of something close to amusement: "I was practicing."

“Practicing what?”

He thought for a moment. "Being like you."

She beamed, clearly delighted. “I’m Kaelira. What’s your name?”

"Bastion."

“That’s a cool name,” she said, and reached into the little satchel slung at her side. From it, she withdrew a small, folded paper airship—slightly crumpled, but crafted with care. “Here. You can have it. I made it myself.”

He accepted it like it was made of glass, holding it delicately between his massive fingers. "Thank you." He turned it over in his hands, noting the care in the folds, the uneven symmetry, the soft creases from where she had clearly pressed hard.

There was a brief silence. Comfortable, at first.

Then:
“What does it feel like to be dead?”

Bastion looked at her, surprised again. "What?"

Kaelira shrugged, looking up at him with curiosity. “My daddy says you people aren’t really alive. That you can’t be alive. So that means you must be dead, right?”

He was quiet. Then, softly: "I don’t think I’m dead. But... I thought I was. A few days ago."

“But I thought you people didn’t sleep.”

“We don’t,” he said. “I wasn’t sleeping. I was... gone. For a while. I thought I was gone forever.”

“Why?”

He opened his mouth to answer.

And then—

“Kaelira!” a gruff voice barked across the deck. A dragonborn man strode toward them, eyes narrowed and posture rigid. “Get away from that killer!”

Kaelira frowned. “He’s not a killer, Dad. His name is Bastion.”

“They’re all killers,” the man growled, taking her arm. “I don’t want you near them. Not now, not ever.”

Bastion didn’t move. He watched as Kaelira glanced back at him, her little fingers fluttering in a hesitant wave. “Bye, Bastion…”

And as she walked away with her father, he heard her soft voice behind him:
“Okay, Dad. I’ll stay away from those people.”

His head tilted slightly, like a curious dog hearing a strange sound. He watched her disappear down the stairs.

Then he looked back to the paper airship in his hand.

He raised it slowly. Lined it up with the breeze.

And tossed it.

It wobbled awkwardly at first, but then caught the wind and glided—a fragile little creation drifting through the sky beside the airship, dipping, turning, dancing for a few seconds before spiraling gently downward and vanishing beneath the clouds.

Bastion watched until it was gone.

His fingers closed slowly into a loose fist, as though trying to remember the shape of the airship. Of the moment. Of the child.

And then he turned his gaze back to the birds.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Bastion

Bastion

Bastion ☼ Unknown (Approx. 100 years) ☼ Male ☼ Warforged ☼ Warrior

Appearance

Height:

7'0"

Weight:

400 lbs

Hair Color:

None

Eye Color:

Soft Blue (Faint Glow)

Skin Tone:

Ivory with Bronze Accents

Distinguishing Features:

☼ Etched carvings on his plating—small stars, swirling constellations, simple flowers, and an old noble crest, scratched into his armor by a child's hands.
☼ Signs of wear but well-maintained plating.

Clothing Style:

Simple, durable garments when necessary, but often forgoes clothing beyond a special scarf and a leather harness for carrying gear.

Psychology

Likes:

☼ Watching the sky, particularly stars and clouds..
☼ Small, delicate creatures (birds, insects, rodents).
☼ Learning about customs and emotions from others.

Dislikes:

☼ Senseless violence and cruelty.
☼ Being given orders without choice.
☼ His own reflection—sometimes sees a distorted image.

Habits/Quirks:

☼ Pauses mid-conversation to observe small details others overlook.
☼ Mimics facial expressions but doesn’t always understand them.
☼ Instinctively shields others, even from minor inconveniences.

Dreams/Motivations:

☼ To understand who he is, and who he wants to be.
☼ To honor the memory of what he once protected.
☼ To find a new purpose in the world beyond his prime directive.

Sexuality: Unknown (Never considered it)

Willingness to make friends (1-5): 4
Willingness toward romance (1-5): 2

Personality

Engaging With Others
✦ Extroversion (1-5): 2
✦ Kindness (1-5): 5
✦ Chattiness (1-5): 2
✦ Trustfulness (1-5): 3
✦ Sense of Humor (1-5): 2
✦ Loyalty (1-5): 5
✦ Selflessness (1-5): 4
✦ Flirtatiousness (1-5): 1
✦ Arrogance (1-5): 1

Handling Conflict and Decisions
✦ Patience (1-5): 5
✦ Temperance (1-5): 4
✦ Forgiveness (1-5): 5
✦ Courage (1-5): 5
✦ Stubbornness (1-5): 3
✦ Pacifism (1-5): 4
✦ Impulsiveness (1-5): 2
✦ Creativity (1-5): 2
✦ Mercy (1-5): 4
✦ Charisma (1-5): 3

Background

Place of Origin: Cyre (Destroyed in the Mourning)
Current Occupation: Wandering protector
Living Family Members: None
Why are you traveling to Khorvaire? Searching for purpose in a world that no longer has a place for him.
Non-Combative Skills:
☼ Observant and detail-oriented.
☼ Surprisingly gentle, good at handling fragile things.
☼ Capable of lifting and carrying immense weight effortlessly.
☼ Knowledge of noble etiquette, though he doesn’t always understand its nuances.

History

Bastion was not forged for war, but for protection. Among his peers, he stood as an elite vanguard, a sentinel designed to shield and endure. During the Last War, he was entrusted with the protection of many assigned individuals, yet none more important than the individual he was ordered to safeguard on a mission that took him far beyond Khorvaire—to the distant continent of Sarlona. This was no ordinary charge; the individual was of immense significance, and their survival was paramount.

What began as duty became something more. Spending years at their side, Bastion absorbed their kindness, curiosity, and wonder, mirroring their mannerisms despite not fully comprehending them. For the first time in his existence, he was not just a protector—he was a companion, a friend.

But all things end.

The war was over. His purpose, gone. What once defined him had been stripped away, leaving him an aimless relic in a world that no longer had need of him.

Now, he returns to Khorvaire—a land he was built to serve yet has never truly known—searching for a new purpose, or perhaps just an answer to the question:

What am I now?

Combat & Magic Potential

Class Concept / Role: Warrior

Signature Abilities:

☼ Defensive Mastery – Expertly reduce a devastating hit on yourself or an ally into a mere glancing blow.
☼ Juggernaut – Charge forward with unstoppable momentum, ignoring terrain or smaller enemies attempting to block your path.
☼ Crushing Blow – Deliver a powerful strike that shatters defenses or knocks large foes sprawling.

Major Weaknesses:

☼ Limited Social Understanding – Struggles with complex social interactions, taking things too literally
☼ Burdened by the Past – Still haunted by the ghosts of his past, leading to moments of heavy stress surrounding specific triggers that can cause him to go into a temporary low power mode (Essentially turning him off).
☼ Hulking – His immense build makes him powerful, but he lacks agility.

Racial Trait:
☼ Living Construct - Warforged do not need food, sleep, or air, and their bodies are naturally armored. They can also perform inhuman feats of endurance, such as traveling long distances without rest or resisting extreme conditions.

Boons and Banes:

☼ Boon 1: Kinetic Absorption - Bastion’s body is designed to absorb and redirect kinetic energy. When struck with a powerful attack, he can convert the impact into a surge of strength, either delivering a devastating counterblow or using it to fuel an explosive movement, such as a leaping attack or shockwave strike.
☼ Boon 2: Unbreakable Endurance – Bastion’s sheer fortitude makes him incredibly difficult to take down. He can endure extreme punishment, continue fighting through pain, and remain standing long after others would fall.
☼ Bane: Identity Crisis – With the war over and his past purpose lost, Bastion struggles with his identity. He questions whether he is still just a tool or if he has the right to define himself. This internal struggle sometimes causes hesitation in critical moments or leaves him vulnerable to manipulation.

Combat Equipment and Gear:

☼ Tower Shield

☼ Greatsword made of Glacium (A material as hard as steel, yet formed from eternally frozen ice.)

☼Titan Chain – A reinforced tow chain mechanism is housed within Bastion’s left palm, functioning as a powerful grappling hook. He can fire it to latch onto enemies, pulling them closer or yanking them off ledges. It can also be used for mobility, allowing him to scale walls, mountains, or even grapple onto massive creatures to climb atop them..

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

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