Qia

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

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_{Location: Strigidae Dorm - P.R.C.U.}

Human #5.044: The Prodigal Daughter

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_{Interaction(s): N/A}

Previously: In the Absence of Light

Her aunt’s voice filled the small, still space of her soon-to-be former dorm room, wrapping around her with a warmth that seeped into corners of Harper’s mind she hadn’t realized, until now, had felt so empty. The faint sounds in the background—the soft clinks and quiet shuffling—painted an image of Barbara moving through the living room, perhaps dusting off the coffee table where Harper used to sit, scribbling out math problems or scribbling lines of history notes. Each sound brought a flood of memories crashing back, carrying her to when she was just a fourteen year old girl.

That house had practically gathered her up, catching each piece of her fragile, broken self, and had pieced her together when she’d felt like little more than shards and edges.

“Now, I’ve gone and set up the spare room for you already,” her aunt Barbara continued, her voice bright with a familiar energy Harper had grown up hearing. “Pulled out that old quilt from the closet and even got John to replace the blinds. He says he wants it ‘just right’ for when you get here. Thought he’d fall off the ladder, the old fool.” Her aunt’s chuckle rippled through the phone, filling the silence with an ease that felt like home itself.

The scene she described played out in Harper’s mind with a vividness that surprised her. She could see it as clearly as if she were standing in that spare room right now, with the quilt her aunt had stitched together, blinds pulled down to shade her from the bright Southern sun.

A space that felt suspended in time, waiting just for her.

Her lips curved into a faint smile, almost without permission, as her thumb traced slow, absent-minded circles over her phone screen. For a moment, it was so easy to let herself sink into that vision, to imagine walking into that familiar warmth, where nothing seemed to ask more of her than just being there.

But then, like a shadow cast over that warm picture, a different voice sounded in the back of her mind, interrupting the comforting illusion of choice.

Her own voice. Mocking her.

“I don’t exactly have a line of people volunteering to carry me off to paradise.”

She’d tossed those words out with a casual bitterness, half-joking, a thin shield thrown up in front of Banjo’s well-meaning questions. But now, as she felt her aunt’s steady, unconditional love radiating through every word, the truth in her own remark stung. Her old home was still there, waiting for her—a place she could return to and, in some ways, lose herself in. Just slip back into the ease of it, the comfort of not having to reach, to strain.

And for a moment, she was tempted, almost ready to let herself fall into that safety, that simplicity. But the tug of it felt wrong, didn’t it?

Just because it was safe, just because it would be easy, didn’t make it the right path for her.

Even if her vision came back, Harper would still be, in more ways than one, blind.

“And your uncle’s been fussin’ about what to do with that old dresser of yours,” her aunt went on, her voice dipping into a softer, more reflective tone. “He keeps sayin’ it’s too small for someone ‘bout to start life proper. Thinks you need somethin’ with more drawers, more space. Said maybe he’ll get you one of those tall ones, sturdy as a rock.”

Her aunt’s words held more than a casual suggestion about a new piece of furniture.

They were laced with an invitation, a silent hope that reached beyond the phone, like a hand extended in the dark.

_{“Come home…”}

_{“Settle back in.”}

_{“Let the pieces you left here find their way back to you.”}

And, most of all,

stay a while longer this time.

▅

Harper didn’t answer immediately.

“Harper Rae?”her aunt’s voice floated through the phone again. “You still there, sweetheart?”

The sound of that name, one she hadn’t heard in so long, pulled her back to the present.

Harper blinked.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” she replied, her tone softer than she intended. “But…you guys really didn’t have to go through all that trouble.”

Her aunt’s laugh brushed off Harper’s protest as if it were the silliest thing she’d ever heard.

“Trouble? Now, don’t you start on that,” she replied. “You know we’ve got nothing but time and love to give—especially for you, dear.”

It was the kind of love that didn’t ask for anything in return. No strings attached, no hidden expectations.

Just…there.

Harper had once marveled at it, that feeling of belonging given so freely, unconditionally, even though her aunt and uncle weren’t bound to her by blood. They’d taken her in, made her feel whole, like she was enough, just as she was.

But maybe that was why, when she’d turned eighteen, she’d felt the pull to leave. The need to forge her own path without those considerate hands always ready to catch her if she stumbled.

“Besides,” her aunt chimed in, “the room needed a little sprucing up anyway. Just imagine, you’ll have everything right there waiting—everything just like it used to be, almost.”

“Yeah…that sounds nice.” The words slipped out with a warmth Harper couldn’t quite hide, a small confession wrapped in nostalgia. She could almost feel the weight of the old quilt her aunt had mentioned, smell the faint scent of coffee lingering in the kitchen. It was the kind of safety she’d once taken for granted, a memory she could sink into if only she allowed herself to fall back into that comfort.

She took a slow, steadying breath, the kind that kept her from saying too much too quickly.

“Actually… there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Oh?” Her aunt’s voice came through with a subtle strain wrapped in maternal worry—and maybe even a hint of disappointment. It was as if Barbara already knew, sensing the direction of this conversation before Harper had even finished speaking.

They’d been down this road before, after all.

“I… I’ve been thinking,” Harper continued, letting the words come slowly, carefully, as if shaping them out loud would make her conviction clearer, more real. “About what I need right now. And as much as I want to come back… I think I need to try something else first.”

A pause stretched like a wall between them until a sigh from the other end filled it.

“Oh… well, I can’t say I’m not a little disappointed,” Barbara admitted, her tone gentle but laced with an unmistakable resignation. “What changed your mind?”

“I’m… sorry. I know it probably doesn’t make much sense, and I wish I could just—" Harper stopped, feeling the urge to retreat, to pull back and tell her aunt what she wanted to hear.

But no, that wasn’t fair—to either of them.

“I wish I could just… let myself come back. But there’s this part of me that feels like… like I’ll never really grow if I don’t do this.”

Barbara’s silence filled the line once again, and when she finally spoke her voice seemed to hold the kind of patience that came from a life of nurturing spaces for others to grow.

“You know,” Barbara began gently, “when you left years ago…well, I told John that was just you wanting to find your own way. And it wasn’t easy to see you go, but deep down, I knew it was what you needed.” Her tone softened further, like she was peeling back a layer of herself she hadn’t before. “Maybe it’s selfish of me, but having you here, with Sierra off doing her own thing… well, it made this old house feel a little more like family. Gave us something to hold on to, I guess. To work towards.”

Harper’s grip tightened on the phone, her throat tightening, too, at the quiet way Barbara’s words reached out to her. It was so subtle, the way her aunt hinted at things Harper knew they’d never really discussed about that quiet living room she was probably sitting in now.

A place that had seen so many years pass in the hopes that someone might come in and fill it with laughter, with footsteps, with family.

She knew, without needing to ask, that her aunt hadn’t filled those rooms just for her sister and her. She’d done it to fill her own life, too, finding a family where she could.

“But I want you to know,” Barbara continued, “that whatever it is you’re after, whatever it is you need to do… I’ll be here, Harper. You go and find your way. Just… make sure you come back when you’re ready.”

The depth of her aunt’s words washed over her, filling her with a kind of understanding that left her momentarily speechless. It wasn’t just permission to go; it was a promise. A promise that no matter how far she strayed or how long she took, there would always be a place for her—a home—waiting, whenever she was ready to return.

Pacific Royal had once been that place for her until now. Through all the challenges, her team had been her tether, a second family that gave her a sense of belonging she’d never known she needed. With the university closing and her friends scattered, that foundation had felt as though it had crumbled beneath her feet, leaving her adrift in a world that now seemed fragmented and uncertain.

But maybe Harper had been wrong.

Home wasn’t bound to walls or floors or even the people who moved through them; it was something deeper, something that could exist in more than one place at a time.

It was the steady presence of a hand reaching out, the quiet understanding that no matter where she went or how far she strayed, there’d always be a place to return to.

Whether it was in her aunt’s house,

whether it was in the fading echoes of this school,

or whether it was in the connections she’d fought so hard to build.

It didn’t matter.

▅

Barbara let out a soft sigh on the other end, a sound woven with relief but tinged with an unmistakable thread of unspoken questions that Harper could feel more than hear.

“Now, I know you’ve got your own path to follow, being an adult and all,” she began carefully, her tone gentle but probing. “But…where exactly are you headed, sweetheart?”

Harper had anticipated this moment, had rehearsed her answer more times than she’d admit before calling.

But now, with her aunt’s voice carrying a weight that reached across the miles, her practiced words felt as fragile as glass. Speaking them aloud now, she felt a mix of resolution and vulnerability, as though each syllable she spoke etched her chosen path more firmly into place.

“I’m going to the Foundation,” Harper replied, “It’s…another school for people like me.”

Saying it out loud felt both bold and strange.

Silence hung on the line, her aunt’s quiet processing almost palpable through the phone. In her mind’s eye, Harper could picture the soft crease of Barbara’s brow, her expression thoughtful, weighing this new revelation about the life her adopted daughter had chosen.

“All right, honey,” Barbara replied at last, her tone a careful blend of pride and the quiet worry she didn’t attempt to mask. “I trust you know what you’re doing. I’ll admit, I don’t know much about this place you’re headed to, but if you believe this is what you need…then I believe in you, too. Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself, all right?”

“I will,” Harper promised, the words feeling like a vow rather than a simple answer. Realizing then how much she needed this—this moment, this blessing that felt like a tether to home—she added, “And…I’ll come back. When I’m ready. I…”

Her voice trailed off. Unsaid but understood.

I promise

“Just don’t be a stranger, Harper Rae,” her aunt murmured, her words filled with tenderness, as if sensing the unspoken depths of Harper’s intentions. “We’ll always be here when you are.”

Before Harper could respond, a light knock echoed from the door, and she instinctively turned her head toward the sound despite the blindfold that veiled her eyes.

“My friend’s here to walk with me to the ferry,” she said softly, the words both an end and a beginning.

“Alright then, honey,” her aunt replied, “Take care of yourself, you hear? And remember—don’t stay gone too long.”

“Will do,” Harper replied, a faint smile pulling at her lips. She held the phone to her ear a moment longer, absorbing her aunt’s presence one last time, before letting the phone slip from her ear and ending the call. With a steadying breath, she moved to answer the door, a hesitant smile forming as she opened it.

“Hey, Hayv,” she greeted, a touch of warmth and melancholy in her voice. “Big day…”

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions/Mentions:@The Muse Kira}

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As Kira sank deeper into the water, her tension seemed to dissolve with the rising steam. Orion felt her defences slip, her eyes holding his, unflinching, with a kind of intensity that he could respect. It was rare to meet someone who carried that same quiet defiance. She was known to him in a way—the rumours, the reputation—but he realized now he’d never truly seen her like this, unguarded and unembellished. People often cast him as untouchable, a shadow beside the Prince, and he suspected she lived under similar assumptions, their guarded exterior armour that few dared to pierce.

In response, he inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgment that felt almost like a shared understanding. “Orion,” he offered simply, though he had little doubt she already knew his name. Saying it aloud, however, held weight.

Kira and Orion—two beings the townsfolk likely spoke of in whispers, yet here, they were just two individuals sharing a fleeting pause from their roles. One chosen, the other given. He wondered briefly, but not for the first time, how she was adjusting to life here in this small town.

A cheery, lilting voice suddenly cut through the steam-laden air, ringing out, “Ayel!~ Big brother!~” with a warmth that nearly startled Orion from his quiet observation. His gaze shifted to the source, a young woman waving brightly, her voice brimming with unmistakable familial affection. He wasn’t the only one who noticed—Ayel, positioned in the distance, flinched as though struck, his entire posture stiffening in alarm.

Orion caught the absurdity of Ayel’s reaction, watching as the nobleman practically cowered behind the thin tree, shoulders drawn tight. Then, as though seized by panic, Ayel broke into a clumsy run, fleeing in the opposite direction with the urgency of a cornered animal. Orion’s almost-smirk returned, the humour of the scene tugging at him as he noted the man’s desperate flight, his drenched clothes and wobbling hat reducing any semblance of dignity to a comical blur. So much for composure, he mused, glancing back at Kira to share the unspoken amusement simmering between them.

“Never took him for the type to be chased by someone with that much… affection,” Orion remarked, tilting his head in the direction of Ayel’s escape. He allowed a brief pause, curiosity now blending with amusement. “Any guesses who that might be?” He spoke casually, but there was an underlying interest.

Someone who could unsettle the nobleman that much was someone he’d have to remember.

The springs stretched out before him, steam curling in soft tendrils that blurred the stones and trees, creating an ethereal calm that reminded him of why he had come here in the first place. The tranquility, delicate yet profound, seemed to wrap around him, offering a rare chance to shed his usual vigilance. He considered sinking into the water fully, but as his gaze drifted toward Kira and Sya he thought better of it. Respect for their privacy held him back, and instead, he opted for a gentler approach.

With a quiet sigh, he slipped off his boots, rolled up his trousers, and lowered himself to the edge, letting his feet dip into the hot water. The warmth immediately seeped into his skin, radiating through his legs and loosening the tension that had settled there. It wasn’t much, but even this small immersion was enough to stir a sense of calm within him, the kind that reached deeper than he’d felt in a long while.

Umbra: The Abyssal Connection

A

_{Interactions: VV-@Estylwen}

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A’s pulse quickened as her gaze darted from Le Frey to the scavengers pouring into the safehouse. They moved with a dangerous purpose, weapons drawn, their eyes glinting with a ravenous hunger. The sudden shift in numbers posed a clear threat, yet it also hinted at the faintest glimmer of an opportunity. Each added body in the room created more distraction, more chaos—something she could use if she played her cards right. She didn’t need much, just a split-second where Le Frey’s grip faltered, and that might be enough to get her and VV out.

Looks like everyone wants a piece of us, she thought dryly, shifting her gaze to VV, catching her partner’s eyes briefly. Her own stare was intense and unwavering, a silent exchange of understanding. Slowly, A gave the smallest nod, hoping it was enough to say, Hold on. Don’t rush.

Then, with painstaking care, she let her eyes drift to the scavengers surrounding them, the subtle tilt of her head a quiet message to VV: We’re outnumbered. Wait. The scavengers didn’t need to know what they were capable of—not yet. She needed them to see two captives held down, nothing more. That small moment of underestimation could be the opening they needed, and if VV picked up on her cues, they’d have an unspoken plan in place that could work.

With a measured breath, A forced her body to relax under the tail’s grip, loosening her muscles to project a sense of surrender. The tension seeped from her shoulders as she inhaled deeply, letting her exhale flow slowly, almost calmly, as if she were genuinely submitting. To anyone watching, it would look like she’d given in, accepted defeat. But beneath this facade, her mind was calculating, cycling through possibilities, biding her time.

Any minute now.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions/Mentions: @c3p-0h Amaya, @Dark Light Vellion, @BlackRoseSiren Aurora}

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Elara felt a sting as Vellion dismissed her compassion with a sharp, cold reply. His words cut through her like winter’s chill, the edge of disdain almost daring her to pull back, to stop caring. Yet the pain in his eyes revealed everything she needed to know—this wasn’t about her, or even the wound he tried so desperately to hide. It was something deeper, a darkness clinging to him like a storm cloud he couldn’t shake. Taking a quiet breath, she steadied herself, letting the insult wash over her without flinching.

Just then, she felt the subtle touch of Amaya’s fingers on her arm, a silent signal to step back and give space. Her gaze shifted from Vellion to Amaya, catching the flicker of caution in her friend’s eyes—a familiar guardedness that Elara had seen countless times. Where Elara’s instinct was to lean in and offer comfort, Amaya’s was to hold back, to observe from a distance, assessing for any threat. And given their different statuses, this all made sense to her.

Still.

Elara’s thoughts drifted unbidden to a memory from her own past. She had once watched someone in pain, standing by as they held themselves together, just as Vellion was doing now. She’d hesitated, unsure if it was her place to intervene, and by the time she’d gathered the courage, they had already walked away, leaving her with a guilt that still lingered. That person’s suffering had only deepened in silence, swallowed up by shadows that she had been too slow to dispel.

The memory clung to her even now, its ache refusing to fade with time. Perhaps it was that regret, so deeply rooted, that made kindness feel instinctual to her now, something she couldn’t withhold even if she tried. Offering compassion felt as natural as breathing—as essential, too. If her efforts could even be called that, she thought with a faint smile, doubting they amounted to much in the face of someone else’s guarded walls. Still, she respected Amaya’s silent request, stepping back but keeping her gaze trained on the man, searching his face for something he kept hidden.

She watched as Vellion’s confidence returned, his expression slipping into a practiced charm that felt like a mask hastily thrown over whatever turmoil lay beneath. His easy smile and smooth words were carefully crafted, yet she saw the cracks beneath, the desperation that simmered just out of sight, casting a shadow behind his eyes. It was clear he wanted to control what others saw, to keep his pain hidden and contained. But even as she noted his determination to hide the truth, Elara felt her heart reach out toward him, wondering what had driven him to guard himself so fiercely.

As the healer approached, Vellion’s reaction was immediate, his body tensing as though bracing for an attack. Elara noticed his gaze darting around, desperate for an escape route, his instinct to flee almost palpable. But why? Why did he recoil so strongly from the help offered to him? Her chest tightened, unable to understand what would make someone resist such basic kindness, though she could sense there was more to his story than he was willing to share.

She couldn’t help herself, the words slipping out in a soft but steady tone. “Please, sir, let her help you,” Elara insisted, her voice carrying a gentle firmness. “Even if it is just… a dog bite, as you so put it, you lose nothing by allowing it to be looked at.”

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

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_{Location: The Foundation Institute - Atlantic Ocean}

Human #5.037: In the Absence of Light

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_{Interaction(s): N/A}

Previously: Nothing Left to Burn

The sharp tang of bleach and saltwater hit her lungs as Harper drew a deep breath, the scent acrid and abrasive. It clung to her senses with a foreign intensity, a stark contrast to the natural, wild fragrances she’d left behind at Pacific Royal. For a fleeting moment, she let her eyes drift closed, surrendering to memory. She imagined the earthy pine along the forest trails she’d jogged each morning, the saltiness of the sea breeze wrapping around her, even the cool, dewy scent of the grass on her favorite training field, real or simulated. The echoes of laughter, teasing voices, familiar footsteps—her friends seemed close, just out of reach, as if a mere turn could bring them into focus.

_{Oh, how much she missed her illusions sometimes, however well they’d fooled her.}

Harper’s steps were careful, each movement measured as she followed the sound of shuffling feet around her. The rhythmic sway of the docking pod beneath her made her tighten her grip around the strap of her bag, her knuckles going pale as she forced herself to stay steady. Without her sight, every small movement felt magnified, as though her senses were stretching to fill the gaps, her instincts doing their best to make up for the darkness. Every nerve in her body was attuned to the faintest details she could catch, every beat of her heart amplified as she tried to decipher this sterile, unfamiliar place.

Gone were the soft echoes of life from the island—the gentle rustling of leaves, the occasional birdsong, the subtle hum of distant voices. Here, the Foundation's atmosphere was stifling in its silence, void of warmth, as though the air itself had been scrubbed down, sanitized of anything comforting. Function over form, she thought, a bitter edge to her thoughts. There was nothing human about this place—just a cold, clinical efficiency that seemed to demand compliance. Every trace of familiarity had been stripped away, leaving only the barest, most utilitarian shapes, devoid of comfort or identity.

“Here.” The clipped voice startled her from her left, and she turned instinctively toward it. A pair of scrubs was thrust into her hands, the rough, unyielding fabric pressing against her fingers like sandpaper. She ran her thumb over the coarse material, taking in the way it felt devoid of anything personal, anything welcoming. The subdued, angry murmurs of those around her hinted that she wasn’t alone in her distaste. She clutched the scrubs to her chest, feeling their almost mechanical practicality—a discomfort radiating from every fibre, alien and cold. She hadn’t even taken a step inside, and already, the weight of this place had settled over her.

The faint rustling of clothes and reluctant shuffling filled the pod as others began to change into the assigned uniforms, the sounds subdued yet charged with quiet frustration. The tension around her was palpable, simmering in the tight clench of her jaw, a silent battle she fought to control. Harper forced herself to clamp down on her own rising discontent, pressing it beneath the layers of discipline that had kept her steady through everything up until now. But even that carefully built resolve felt frayed, like it was stretched too thin to contain the irritation bubbling up inside her.

Just like the Trials, she thought, a bitter taste in her mouth as her head conjured the image of the endless, unreachable expanse of ocean outside cracking glass. She could feel it here just as she’d done in there—the water surrounding them like a cage. There was no land, no escape route, only this strange, phlegmatic place surrounded by miles of open sea.

A nearby student gave a disbelieving sigh. Harper could hear the reluctant rustling as another student began changing, submitting to the Foundation’s demands with a resignation that mirrored her own. Her hands trembled slightly as she held the scrubs, the rough fabric biting into her skin. A sharp reprimand from an attendant snapped her out of her anxious thoughts, forcing her back to the present. She fumbled with her jacket, slipping her arms free and folding it with deliberate care. What should have been a simple task—changing her clothes—felt like a drawn-out test of patience, every movement dragging against the strain.

Finally, she tugged the stiff, white scrubs over her own clothes, shivering as the cold, unyielding fabric settled against her skin. It felt foreign, like she was donning a stranger’s identity to fit into this rigid, new world. When she’d gotten rid of her sketchbook back on the island with Banjo, it had been her choice—a conscious act of letting go. But here, it felt forced, like they were robbing her of everything established in her personhood, leaving only the emptiness of the Foundation in its place.

A faint metallic clink shifted her attention to what was likely a bin where students were dropping their belongings for inspection. She reached for the strap of her duffel, fingers brushing over it as she hesitated, unwilling to let go of the few items she had left. Inspection, she thought bitterly. As if they’re searching for something they don’t want us to keep. The thought gnawed at her, making her wonder what exactly they were trying to strip away. What more could they possibly take?

Harper edged forward after reluctantly giving over her things, each step punctuated by the shuffling of nervous students around her. Her fingers brushed along the row of bodies in front of her, her movements cautious, every fibre in her body attuned to the sounds and stifled breaths surrounding her. The low, buzzing murmur of discontent grew louder around her, laced with notes of fear and frustration. Yet for every voice that rose even slightly in protest, there was a quick, sharp reprimand, emphasizing just how pointless defiance was in this place. The Foundation didn’t need to demand obedience; the sterile silence and stiff uniforms did that well enough on their own.

“Please place your left wrist in the hole to your left, underside facing up.”

She could barely see, but the terror in the voice ahead of her, the raw scream that cut through the stillness then, left no ambiguity. The sound clawed through the room, breaking open the tense silence with a visceral crack. Harper’s heartbeat quickened, hammering against her ribs as the smell of burnt flesh filled her senses, thick and stifling. She caught herself clutching her own wrist, her fingers pressing into the delicate skin, as though anchoring herself, as if she could preserve her own sense of self in the face of whatever waited for her.

How much more could they possibly take?

The answer: As much as they could. Nothing less than their sense of humanity.

Another scream came, guttural and defiant, followed by the choked sobs of those around her. Harper’s resolve wavered, but eventually, she found herself at the front, facing the slot where others had braced their hands.

The voice barked, "Next!" sharp and close. Before Harper could fully steel herself, a rough hand clamped around her wrist, yanking her forward with a force that left no room for hesitation. Her arm was wrenched into place beneath the machine, a clamp locking down on her wrist with a cold, metallic snap that sent a shiver through her.

Trapped, sightless, she braced herself, though she knew nothing could prepare her for what was coming.

A high-pitched hum began to build, vibrating through the machine, through the metal around her wrist, and finally into her bones. It climbed with a relentless rhythm, a pulse that seemed to echo her own racing heart, drawing the moment out until her muscles tightened, every nerve stretched to its breaking point. Her fingers twitched involuntarily, instinct urging her to pull away, but the clamp held fast. There was no escape—only the inevitable, looming like a wave about to crash.

Then, in a flash, the searing pain hit. White-hot agony tore through her wrist, as if her very skin were being peeled away by fire. Her body jerked instinctively, a strangled gasp forcing its way out as she fought not to cry out. The stench of her own flesh burning filled her nostrils, thick and nauseating, coating her senses in a sickening layer of raw reality. Her eyes stung beneath the blindfold, the heat and pain merging into one unbearable force that clawed at her resolve.

Every instinct screamed for her to pull away, to tear her arm free from the inferno. But she held on, her fingers curling into fists, nails digging into her palms, grounding herself through the pain. She forced herself to stay still, breathing through the tremors that wracked her body, letting the fire scar her wrist without letting it scar her spirit.

When the clamp finally released, her arm fell limp to her side, the fresh brand still burning against her skin. She staggered, cradling her wrist, fingertips brushing over the swollen, raised edges.

Another scar, another tally mark in a long line of painful memories, but this one felt different somehow—etched with the intent to strip away more than just her sense of safety. To erase every piece of her, leaving only a cog in the relentless machine of the Foundation.

As Harper stepped forward, cradling her burned wrist, the faint murmurs of other students drifted around her, one word catching her ear:

“Tiamat.”

The sound of it drove deeper than the burn in her wrist, freezing her in place. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the bustling world around her fell away, leaving only that name reverberating inside her.

Amma.

Amma, fierce and powerful, was emblazoned on the unseen banner above her like a goddess chiselled from stone, forever fixed in allegiance to this hollow, impenetrable place. Except she wasn’t simply Amma here; she was Tiamat, a phantom moulded by the Foundation into a weaponized icon, an ideal they all would be forced to face. The girl who’d once felt real—her laugh, her defiance—had been crystallized, twisted, and placed out of reach.

It struck her then, the brutal truth of this place: the Foundation didn’t just claim bodies; it reshaped them, carved away their humanity until only the pieces it could use remained. They weren’t here to build heroes or nurture skills. No, they were here to create symbols—loyal soldiers, faceless and bound to the system, drained of everything that made them whole.

“Keep it moving!” The harsh voice from behind jarred her back to the present, prodding the line forward.

She moved as instructed, footsteps tentative as she felt herself guided down the hall, then nudged into a small, barren cell. The metal door clanged shut behind her with a finality that seemed to swallow every sound, enclosing her in an almost oppressive stillness. Moments later, the flicker of light overhead vanished, plunging the space into darkness so complete she could feel it, as if the walls around her themselves had vanished. Harper stood still…

and then, slowly, she lowered herself to the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees in a makeshift shield against the nothingness.

As she sat alone, her fingers drifted to the brand on her wrist, tracing its jagged edges, each brush of her touch reigniting the sting. She forced herself to believe that, like every other wound she had endured, this too would heal in time. Even if the scar never truly faded, she reassured herself, the pain would lessen, retreating into the background of countless other marks she carried. This would become just another among many—etched on her skin, perhaps, but unable to define her.

And yet…

even as she told herself this, the blackness around her felt smothering, as though it was consuming her whole. She fought to push the thought away, repeating to herself that the brand wouldn’t change who she was, that this place would not reshape her soul. But then another fear crept in, a quieter, more insidious thought: What if she was meant to stay this way? Hidden from herself, from others, trapped in perpetual darkness, like a blade waiting for its wielder. That was what they wanted, wasn’t it? To strip her of everything—her identity, her strength, her sense of self—until she was no more than an obedient shadow. A thing with no direction.

Harper’s fingers drifted up to the fabric covering her eyes, resting there briefly as if deciding. She had chosen this darkness before, a barrier between her and the rest of the world, a way to control the flow of light and sight. But now… something inside her rebelled against it. In one swift movement, she slipped her fingers beneath the blindfold and tugged it down, letting it rest in her lap and exposing her face to the emptiness around her.

For a moment, there was nothing. Only the same void pressing down on her, lifeless and unwavering. But just as she was ready to dismiss the flutter in her chest as some trick of exhaustion, there it was—a weak glimmer, something she felt almost as much as she saw. It hovered at the limits of perception, like the memory of a spark or the warmth of sunlight straining through layers of deep, choking smoke. Her heart rate seemed to slow, each beat stretching out longer than the one before, as if the very fabric of time had softened around her, creating a fragile pause.

She blinked, a slow, deliberate motion that felt suspended in air, and in that heartbeat, every sensation intensified. The dull ache in her wrist throbbed with startling clarity, the fabric in her lap coarse beneath her fingertips. But just as quickly as it had come, the sensation faded, leaving only a soft pulse lingering in her chest, a hint of something almost too intangible to name.

Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

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_{Location: Strigidae Dorm - Dundas Islands, Pacific Ocean}

Human #5.034: Nothing Left to Burn

^{_{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): Banjo-@Hound55}

Previously: Birds in Their Little Nests Agree & Do You See What I See?

As he spoke about family with such detached finality, Harper felt a pang of envy, even a touch of guilt. Here was someone who’d lived without it, without the grounding comfort she’d always felt bound to, and yet…he was here, offering his help as though family were just another distant concept, something unnecessary. There was a resilience in Banjo, a way he navigated his life without needing anyone to fall back on. Harper bit her lip, nodding quietly, more to herself than to him, wondering if she could lean on that same strength again. One built on solitude rather than the tangled safety net of sentimental connections she always felt around her since coming here.

She ran her fingers along the wall, letting the solid feel of it ground her as she drifted back into the present, back to her list of what still needed packing. “Right…we should be close now anyway,” she murmured, mentally sorting through what's left. “There’s just a couple of things- a few clothes, books…and, um…my sketchpad.” Her tone faltered slightly, though she tried to brush past it as she thought of the sketchpad’s last whereabouts…whatever it was. She couldn’t even remember when she’d last opened the damn thing.

And, honestly, did it matter? Those sketches, those fragments of herself she’d scribbled down in private moments, were practically pieces of a puzzle she no longer needed to assemble. Too much had changed.

“But that can stay behind.”

It was already in his hands.

“So this is you, huh?”

He’d flicked to a page with the girl kneeling before the gentle shoreline, the telltale sound of his fingers turning pages, making it clear to Harper that he’d already found it.

“Or how you see y’self, at least…”

Harper’s jaw tightened as she heard the faint rustle of pages turning in Banjo’s hands.“But that can stay behind.”...she had barely gotten the words out, and there he was, flipping through her sketches as if he had every right. A prick of irritation rose within her, and she imagined for a moment that if she could still see, she’d have been levelling her most withering glare at him (and still did through her blindfold). In her head, she bit out his nickname Dung Beetle, with a satisfying sting, before stepping into her room through the open door.

She heard his low muttering as he continued tumbling through her sketchpad, each comment a casual appraisal of something that felt far too personal to have laid bare.

“Etched eyes. Lookin’ forward to the light. Shadows at your back. Rocks on the distant horizon, meanin’ what, either the solid foundation you saw yourself as havin’, or the trials and tribulations you saw yourself as havin’ gone through in the past? Maybe both. Somethin’ like that, yeah. ‘S good. I mean, it would be good, yeah? Ya powers and all.”

“Better’n I could do. Never spent much time on art and such. Found other things to do with my time.”

He chuckled to himself remembering a time he had stuffed three roast chickens in the kiln at one of his schools, for the art teacher to discover later.

Harper’s fingers clenched at her sides as she mentally traced the sketch he must have been looking at- the one she’d done before the start of the semester on the beach. It had been one of those rare moments when the world had felt bigger, her place in it smaller, a fleeting feeling she’s tried to capture on paper.

“Huh… you draw nature stuff, too?” He uttered flicking through more pages and coming across a large, detailed drawing of a beetle. Before moving his hand and revealing the name written at the bottom.

“Huh.” He chuckled to himself. _{“Ya know what? Fair…”}

Harper’s lips almost twitched at the mental image, knowing for sure which sketch he’d come across then. But the humour faded quickly as his words about her powers caught in her mind like a burr.

“For the record,” she said, the edge in her voice unmissable, “my powers didn’t make me good at this.” She took a breath, gearing up to make a slow push against the assumptions he seemed all too quick to make. “I’d put in hours-months- just to get the lines right, to understand how to blend light and shadow and make it look good, as if they belonged together. Maybe my vision helps with the details, but the skill? That was mine to build.”

Without waiting for a reply, she continued. “Archery’s different, though. That came naturally, like I’d known it all along. But art…” Her hand drifted to her side, as if tracing the memory of her father guiding her on how to hold a pencil for the first time. “Art was something I had to work at, piece by piece.”

His brows raised in curiosity over her response.

It was different for him. His powers were too entwined a part of him, and himself. He couldn’t think of one aspect of him, one thing he did well, that wasn’t impacted by his own powers. From anything physical, right through to the mental. It was all part of one big HZE-infused hyper-package.

So many things just, sort of came effortlessly to him. All of which he could attribute to them.

He’d never considered that someone could take offense to them being some kind of external advantage, to take offense for how they benefited them.

He’d had to go without actively ‘juicing’ for a while after the Trials, but if the flow was cut off entirely tomorrow, what would he be? Who would he be?

He’d have a great, almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the law in three countries, and numerous states and provinces, but even that had been learned not just due to his own curiosity, but from his own advanced ability to think and absorb the information because of his powers.

He put the book down on a table with more care than appeared to have been shown to it before, where it had been thrown in the bottom of a closet.

“So you said clothes, right? I’m stickin’ to everythin’ worn over the top, if you don’t mind. Sparky McGee would punch himself through time and space to get at me if he thought I touched your derps, dacks and under-stuff.”

His focus swung back to the task at hand.

“Pick a colour for the bottom, and if we keep it to the spectrum you should at least have some sense of what you’re holdin’ if you don’t get help at the other end of wherever you’re goin’. Do you get what I’m sayin’. Like red at the bottom, purple at the top, and sort by type?”

Harper’s brow furrowed, her mind skimming through images of people she knew that the nickname could match, before landing on a disturbing realization: Cass. That’s who he must be referring to. Swallowing hard, she numbly nodded her head at his suggestion before tugging what felt like a shirt from a pile, feeling the soft fabric in her hands which offered little comfort. No matter how she tried to focus on the packing, her thoughts drifted back to him.

They hadn’t even talked since that night.

She’d replayed that part of the night more times than she cared to admit this week despite everything else, her thoughts a muddle of regret and something sharper-hurt. She hadn’t meant to trigger him; that much was clear. But even as she acknowledged her own misstep, a twinge of resentment stirred. He’d spent that night mainly looking out for Aurora who, as far as she knew, hadn’t needed anyone until much later. He hadn’t even responded to her text.

The brunette exhaled, realizing just how deeply his silence had gotten under her skin. But as much as she’d cared, as much as she’d simply desired to just enjoy the stupid event with him, it was clear now that she hadn’t been the villain of that moment. She couldn’t, wouldn’t have been able to take on the load of his past or make sense of emotions he hadn’t invited her into. It wasn’t her job to heal him, just as it wasn’t her responsibility to anticipate every emotional landmine.

Cass had his own battles to face, battles he hadn’t even asked her to fight. And maybe-just maybe- she was finally learning that they weren’t hers to win or lose either.

As they worked, the room grew quieter, the sounds of rustling clothes and dull thuds of items settling into her duffel becoming a muted backdrop. Harper’s energy had waned with each pass of her hands over clothes, books, and keepsakes, her movements slowing to a rhythm both repetitive and draining. Time seemed to blur, stretching into an unbroken sequence as her belongings gradually took shape into something organized. And yet, her thoughts kept circling back to the sketchbook—the one Banjo had flipped through, the one that now seemed to embody everything she was trying to leave behind.

He had been right about one thing: she had been through more than she’d ever been able to fully comprehend. And maybe she was finally beginning to understand that letting go was part of healing just as much as dealing with the anger that came so naturally with it, no matter how daunting it felt.

She stopped mid-fold, fingers remaining on the soft fabric of a sweater, feeling its worn threads under her touch. Banjo had already shifted to the other side of the room by then, sorting through the last bit of the books she’d wanted to keep. The space he gave her had, strangely enough, made her come to another realization: she didn’t want it anymore. The constant reminder of the girl who had found it easier to deal with everything bad that had been thrown at her by distancing herself. She didn’t want to be angry, or alone, anymore.

“Hey Banjo…?” Harper’s voice was more subdued than she expected, though it still managed to cut through the lull as she turned to face him. “Would you… burn it for me? The sketchbook?” She fidgeted with the sweater in her hands, teeth almost meeting her lips before she stopped them.

“I just…need it gone.”

He looked back at the tabletop with its scattered array of catalogues - neatness was one of the first victims when the hyperhuman sanctuary’s demise was made public - and the sketchbook that rested atop them all.

He went to the kitchen and pulled the rubbish bin out. He swept the paper off the table and doused it with lighter fluid, before setting it ablaze.

There was no argument. He made no effort to talk her out of it, and she was almost surprised when the scent of burning paper hit her nose. Just as he was shocked she’d been so eager to take him up on his blurted offer, she held no small amount of surprise at how there was no quibble nor quarrel over her own spontaneous request. But perhaps, like it had been with Calliope, there was more to her teammate than Harper had ever seen.

“…Turns out he’s actually super considerate and sweet and cares about me without expecting me to be perfect.”

She felt Calliope’s presence then, a memory as fragile and fading as the last embers of the fire. His willingness to let her burn this part of herself without asking why or whether she’d regret it hit her in a way she hadn’t expected.

The guy was still an utter menace to those around him, a living breathing disaster zone. Still, it was a comfort to not have to explain herself to anyone for once.

As he stood there, watching the bin aflame, Banjo remembered his first week in this place. The action which got him removed from the University Library and re-placed in the Collegiate Library for his community contribution.

He’d heard it had been Katja who had to deal with the aftermath then. Heard her complaining and threatening harm to whoever caused it at the time. He was pretty sure she’d never found out who.

“I’m gonna take that bin with me, if ya don’t mind, when it's done. I reckon I know just what to do with it.”

He walked over and lifted the duffel, testing its weight.

He furrowed his brow as he picked it up and put it down. It wasn’t too heavy for him, but he wasn’t the one who was going to have to–

“Are you sure Raw’s gonna be able to jump you wherever you’re all goin’ with all of this?”

She’d assumed too soon.

For all the comforting quiet, the unspoken agreement to let things lie, Banjo had a way of surprising her just when she thought she had him somewhat figured out. She tilted her head slightly, half-irritated and half-amused. It wasn’t the kind of question she’d expected from him, not when she’d thought he was just here to help her pack and not question her travel logistics.

A dry smile crept onto her face as she replied. “I’m more than certain that Raw can handle anything I throw at her.” The humour in her voice was real, if a bit muted, and she almost wished that it was the end of it. That she could keep up her light-hearted front. But Harper’s smile slowly faded as she added, “It’s not like she’ll be doing it alone. Except…well, she won’t have me.”

“Wait, so you’re goin’ with Haven and Tyler?” He scratched the back of his head. He wasn’t sure about that. As horrible as it was to think about, he’d quietly thought to himself of the silver linings that would be in Haven going underground without her wings, as much as they meant to her. But a three person party with a wheelchair was more conspicuous to be on the run.

Harper felt her shoulders tense. Why was he pushing so hard? Why did he even care? She considered deflecting entirely at that point, keeping up the pretense of a simple departure with whomever else wasn’t going to the Institute.

“Haven and Rory don’t need the extra burden. I’m also sure they have their own plans,” she replied curtly.

”Well, if– wait… are you out of your fuckin’ mind?!” As the cogs clicked into place.

She let out a short, dry laugh. “I don’t exactly have a line of people volunteering to carry me off to paradise.” She naturally rolled her eyes behind the fabric over them.

“I just gave you TWO! With no thought on my part! Shit, the Roths would probably take ME in if they thought I really had no place else to go, and would hate every minute of it! But they’d still probably do it. Because they’re good people.” None of this made sense to him.

“Sure, they might take me in, but they’d have to deal with a lot more than they bargained for. With you they would know what to expect. But with me…I’d just be an additional responsibility.” Harper grimaced at her choice of words, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear as a distraction. “I know there are probably other options, Banjo, but they’re just…not the right ones. Not when I’m like this.”

“EXACTLY when you’re like this! ‘When you’re like this’, you mean… umm… when you can’t see shit comin’?” He paused for rhetorical effect.

He had enough shit to worry about over there already. Daedalus. Roommates. Katja. Rollerskatin’ Chlo– Cleo. The Natural Hellscape the place was already bound to be just from what he’d heard. Now this.

Harper let out a frustrated groan. Banjo’s persistence, though well-intentioned, felt like fingers prying open a door she’d preferred to keep locked. “You don’t get it.”

“Y’r right. I don’t get it.” He gestured with his palms out.

“I lost every reason I had to actually run. Everything. At this point, it would pretty much be selfish of me to do anythin’ different, than try and put a clock on this guy and get him before he can get Haven and anyone else he has his eye on. I ran. Most of my life. It’s not easy to do, even if you’re good at it. Haven hasn’t had to in a while, and others - like Rory - have no experience in doin’ it at all. I don’t know how long they can keep it up when he’s still out there.”

“What I’M doin’ is crazy. I didn’t need Rory to tell me that, but if he can see it, I don’t know how he thought I’D have missed it. But it needs doin’, and it's not like I have any good reason to not be doin’ it.”

“And you think I don’t have a good reason?” Harper retorted immediately. “I have to go to the Foundation. I know the risk I’m taking in doing so, trust me. But my vision will come back. It always has.” The last few words left her mouth with a conviction she did not feel all the way through but had to say nonetheless. Otherwise, they would be here all night. And Harper would prefer to get as much rest as possible before her big day tomorrow.

He picked up the bin and scooped something off the table. ”Well, all things bein’ equal, between your art and your bloody archery, I’d prefer it be your shootin’ that was less dependent on your powers given the current circumstances…”

”I guess, I’ll see you tomorrow. Hopefully by then you’ve come to your bloody senses, whether one-a them’s your vision or not. G’night.”

He pulled the door closed behind him.

Harper listened to the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall before eventually walking over and closing her door with a heavy sigh.

Come to her senses? Maybe.

But for now, this was a choice she’d made alone, one that felt right, even if it didn’t make sense to anyone else.

---

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions/Mentions:@The Muse Kira}

---

Orion held his ground as the nobleman prattled on, voice drenched in theatrical indignation that seemed entirely lost on everyone but himself. Ayel’s dismissive tone and exaggerated gestures would’ve been amusing any other day, but now they only added to the strain in the air. The blightborn’s gaze narrowed slightly as he watched Ayel chuckle behind his hand, seemingly indulging in some private, imagined humour. The nobleman’s clothes were soaked through, his fine boots ruined, water dripping from the hem of his once-pristine coat. Orion felt the briefest satisfaction at seeing him so thoroughly humbled by the springs; perhaps a small dose of reality would cling to him as stubbornly as the dampness.

Ayel muttered to himself, waving his hands as though batting away invisible criticisms, only to halt abruptly at the sight of Ranni. His gaze lingered a beat too long, discomfort and irritation flickering across his face before he stiffened, attempting to recover his dignity. Orion noted the arrogant tilt of the nobleman’s chin as he turned away, the squelch of wet fabric punctuating each step. In Ayel’s world, it seemed, there was little room for humility—or for admitting that he might be anything less than untouchable. Orion held back a sigh, wondering if the man even noticed how absurd he looked as he attempted to compose himself.

Then Ayel sidled awkwardly toward a thin tree, attempting to hide behind it as though the bare trunk could shield his entire figure. Orion’s composure wavered, and he felt an unexpected surge of mirth rise within him, bubbling up in a way he hadn’t felt in… longer than he cared to admit. Watching the nobleman stumble about, soaked and flustered, brought a warmth to his chest, a raw and almost painful urge to laugh that he hadn’t experienced since before his death. He bit the inside of his cheek, holding back the laughter that clawed at him, though the corners of his mouth fought to rise, betraying the slightest sparkle of amusement in his otherwise serious expression.

A memory surfaced then, faint and distant, a small flicker of a time before he became blightborn, when laughter had come as easily as breathing. That kind of joy felt foreign now, buried beneath layers of purpose and stoic duty. Yet here it was, insistent, cracking through the walls he’d carefully built.

Watching Ayel peer around the tree, blissfully unaware of how exposed he was, Orion felt a lightness fill him, a strange and unnamed sensation that reminded him—if only for a moment—of his own humanity. The rare spark of laughter was there, tugging at him like an old friend long forgotten.

After a steadying breath, Orion pushed down the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth, forcing his expression back into its usual calm. The amusement ebbed but didn’t vanish entirely, leaving a faint warmth in his gaze as he turned his attention to Kira, whose irritation still pulsed in the air. Her intensity was unmistakable, like a coiled spring ready to snap, and he could almost feel her frustration simmering beneath the surface. He knew well the kind of patience it took to temper such impulses—and when to give in to them. But today, he intended to keep things from boiling over.

“He wouldn’t have been worth it anyway,” Orion remarked, his tone calm but tinged with a touch of dry humour. His gaze shifted to Ayel again, who still lingered behind the flimsy cover of the tree, as if unaware of how ridiculous he looked. The nobleman’s thinly veiled attempts at dignity were unravelling, and Orion let the sight remain in his mind, knowing Kira would appreciate the absurdity just the same. “Better to save your energy for prey who might actually put up a fight.”

His words were quiet, meant for her alone, as though sharing an inside joke.

Realms of Sun & Shadow

_{Interactions/Mentions: @c3p-0h Amaya, @Dark Light Vellion}

---

Elara watched as Amaya dismissed the two Aurelian women, her calm authority flickering into something hollow, like a shadow swallowing the warmth in her expression. The polite words fell smoothly from Amaya’s lips, her practiced smile soft and unwavering, but Elara could see the cost of each perfectly placed gesture. It was as though Amaya had slipped into a role, one she had worn so many times that it no longer felt like her own. Elara’s chest tightened, wishing she could tell Amaya that she didn’t need to be the perfect princess here—not with her. But instead of speaking, she settled for a steady, supportive look that she hoped would remind Amaya that, to her, she was more than just a title.

“I swear I used to be better at this.” The words slipped from Amaya’s lips in a low breath, so faint Elara almost missed them.

Elara’s heart softened, and she leaned in, her voice low but filled with admiration. “And you’re still doing better than anyone else would,” she murmured, knowing that Amaya needed to hear it. Rising, Elara offered a comforting nod, acknowledging Amaya’s acceptance of her offer for a drink—a simple gesture that held more meaning between them. “I’ll be right back,” she reassured, her tone calm yet warm, hoping Amaya understood that she would return swiftly. But as Elara turned to move, she felt a presence slide between them, blocking her path. She looked up, surprised, to see a man standing there—a stranger, his dark hair falling in a charmingly dishevelled way, though his expression seemed caught somewhere between desperation and hesitation.

His gaze lingered on Amaya, his eyes wide as if he were looking for someone else in her face. His intended greeting stumbled out in a stammered, “Uh, Gree… greetings,” and for a moment, Elara wondered if he was lost, or if something else had brought him here. She exchanged a brief, confused glance with Amaya, sensing an odd tension in the air. Before she could analyze his intent, the man’s leg gave way, and he stumbled forward, reaching out to brace himself. Instinctively, Elara caught his arm, helping him find his balance as her gaze drifted down to his injured ankle—a patchwork of scars and bruises that spoke of something harsh and unresolved, the kind of injury that came with its own story.

“Please, sit down before you make it worse,” she said softly, guiding him to a stable position. Her concern deepened as she took in the injury, a raw mix of old bruising and fresh strain that suggested it hadn’t been treated properly, if at all. She cast a quick, questioning look at Amaya, who seemed equally unsettled, before turning her attention back to the man. “You really ought to have that wound looked at,” she added gently, her voice carrying a note of insistence, though her tone remained kind. “It doesn’t look like it’s healing properly,”

Recollections: Primal Sinister

Elena Castellano

"Curiosity never killed the cat—she just came back a little wiser."

_______________________________________________ Elena Castellano She/Her | 20 | Mixed (Spanish and African American) | 5'6" | 135lbs _______________________________________________ Charismatic _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "I’ve learned to read people, places, and the stuff they try to hide." ___________________________________ [+] [Street Smarts] ⫻ Growing up on the South Bank, Elena has developed a solid understanding of navigating Cloverfield’s rougher areas. She knows how to read situations, identify potential threats, and move safely within the city. [People Reading] ⫻ Elena has a knack for picking up on body language and subtle cues, helping her sense what others may be feeling or hiding. This skill aids her in her social interactions and investigations. [Basic Herbology] ⫻ Having helped her mother in their herbal shop, Elena has a working knowledge of basic herbs and plants. She can mix simple remedies and teas, mostly for calming or minor healing. [Photo Documentation] ⫻ Elena’s eye for photography helps her document her explorations. She captures details others might miss, giving her a catalog of evidence and memories of her discoveries, which also aids her investigative work.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Yeah, this is as dressed up as I’m gonna get." Elena stands at 5’6”, with a natural, laid-back look that matches her easygoing personality. Her medium-length, dark curly hair is often left loose, framing her face in soft waves, though she’ll occasionally pull it up into a ponytail or messy bun when she’s on the move. Her warm brown skin has a natural glow, and she doesn’t fuss much with skincare beyond the basics—her appearance is effortlessly polished without too much attention. Her style leans heavily toward casual, comfortable clothing. She favors fitted t-shirts, tank tops, or loose sweaters paired with well-worn jeans or leggings, often throwing on a light jacket or hoodie if it’s cooler out. Her footwear of choice is usually sneakers or ankle boots, sturdy enough for the city streets but relaxed enough to reflect her low-maintenance vibe. Elena likes earthy tones—soft browns, olive greens, and muted reds—but she’s not afraid to mix in brighter colors when the mood strikes. She’s usually seen wearing minimal jewelry, like small hoop earrings or a simple pendant necklace, adding just a touch of personality without going overboard. Her accessories are practical: a crossbody bag where she keeps her notebook and a few other essentials, and occasionally a beanie or baseball cap when she wants to keep her hair out of her face. She rarely bothers with makeup, but when she does, it’s subtle—just a bit of mascara or a hint of lip balm to enhance her natural look. Her eyes, always full of curiosity and wit, are her most expressive feature, often hinting at the sarcastic comment that’s about to follow. Her overall style is relaxed and functional, but it carries a certain effortless charisma that makes her stand out without trying too hard.

_{Psychology
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"It’s all just one big puzzle, and I don’t plan on leaving pieces out."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Elena’s goal is to uncover Cloverfield’s hidden layers, delving into the city’s forgotten histories and magical underpinnings without getting pulled into its web of power struggles. She sees herself as a witness to Cloverfield’s strange and shifting story, not a hero—and she prefers it that way.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Life is short, so Elena believes in making it as interesting as possible. She approaches each day as if there’s always something worth discovering, and she thinks everyone, from the wealthiest elite to the lowest wanderer in the South Bank, has a story worth listening to, even if it’s just for the thrill of the unknown.

SECRETS ⫻ Despite her laid-back attitude, Elena is afraid that her carefree outlook might be a cover for deeper anxieties about herself and the world around her. She wonders if her fascination with Cloverfield’s mysteries is just a way to avoid facing her own fears of commitment, loss, or personal vulnerability.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Bisexual. Elena is drawn to people with a strong sense of self, regardless of gender, though she often keeps relationships casual to avoid emotional entanglements that feel too binding.

FEARS ⫻ Her biggest fear is losing her independence, either through the dangerous entanglements in Cloverfield’s underworld or by succumbing to the more treacherous elements she uncovers. The Cataclysm reinforced her aversion to being tied down, as she saw firsthand how fast things could fall apart.

WHAT DID THEY DO DURING THE CATACLYSM? ⫻ When Nyrah the Ravager descended, Elena and her mother were among the South Bank residents scrambling to protect what little they had. The emotional surge of the event triggered Elena’s Kindling, connecting her to her ancestors’ magic. The experience left her both awed and unsettled, fueling her curiosity about Cloverfield’s magical legacy and her desire to understand the city’s supernatural history.

FLAWS ⫻ Elena’s sarcastic, unbothered attitude often comes across as dismissive, especially when others are dealing with serious issues. Her independence borders on recklessness, and she sometimes relies too heavily on charm and quick wit to avoid or defuse tense situations. Her refusal to form deep attachments can prevent her from fully trusting others, making her prone to handling matters alone—even when she’d be better off asking for help.

_{Backstory
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"This city keeps its secrets close… but not close enough."

Elena grew up on Cloverfield’s South Bank, where life was as tough as the city’s worn-out pavement. Her mother, a resilient herbalist, ran a small shop tucked away in a narrow alley. The shop was known among locals for its remedies and teas, blending traditional medicine with Cloverfield’s subtle, lingering magic. Elena spent her childhood there, weaving through shelves stacked with dried herbs and jars of vibrant potions, watching her mother tend to people from all walks of life.

As she got older, Elena grew familiar with the South Bank’s harsh realities. The lack of investment in her community was glaring, and even as the North side glittered with opulent nightclubs and skyscrapers, the South Bank was left in the shadows, struggling with neglect, crime, and a heavy-handed police presence. This disparity between the two sides of Cloverfield sharpened Elena’s natural curiosity and sense of independence, shaping her into a young woman who could navigate any situation with charm and quick wit.

The Cataclysm struck when Elena was 18, ripping through the city with Nyrah the Ravager’s destructive magic. She and her mother were among those scrambling to salvage their shop, with its delicate shelves and walls barely able to withstand the chaos. In the turmoil, Elena experienced a powerful emotional surge—fear, determination, and anger collided within her, triggering her Kindling Event. In that moment, she connected to her ancestors’ magic, a mix of memories, knowledge, and wisdom, passed down through generations of her family. The experience was overwhelming yet oddly familiar, like stepping into a story she’d heard a hundred times but was only now beginning to understand.

After the Cataclysm, Elena felt an even stronger pull toward Cloverfield’s hidden stories and supernatural secrets. As she helped her mother rebuild their herbal shop, Elena began to experiment with her magical abilities, finding ways to weave memories and protective charms into her tea blends. These brews became her gateway to understanding the city’s past, its lingering energies, and the emotional imprints left by its inhabitants.

Now, Elena carefully balances her time between aiding her mother in the shop and using her teas to explore Cloverfield’s mysteries. She often collects herbs and relics that might add potency to her brews, and her blends have become a valuable tool for uncovering the truths behind strange occurrences—like the whispered tales of werewolf packs, strange lights in the lower districts, and mysterious disappearances that seem too frequent to be mere coincidence.

Elena keeps her abilities discreet, sharing her brews only with those she trusts, aware of how dangerous her teas’ effects could be if they fell into the wrong hands. She doesn’t see herself as a hero—she’s more of a curious soul drawn to the shadows, piecing together the city’s story one brew at a time. For Elena, Cloverfield is like a living puzzle, layered with secrets, and she’s determined to unravel as much of it as she can without losing herself in the process.

_{Abstraction
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"Some things just brew better with a little magic."

TYPE ⫻ Adept

LUX ⫻ White (Nostalgia) — Elena has an affinity for White Lux, allowing her to gather information from memories, past events, and people. Her connection to White Lux is fueled by her natural curiosity and desire to uncover hidden histories.

CHANNELER ⫻ Elena’s Channeler is a vintage tea infuser passed down through her family. This intricate, antique infuser, etched with faint symbols of her lineage, helps her focus her magic into each blend she creates, tapping into her ancestors’ collective knowledge and intent.

SPELLS ⫻

Memory Brew ⫻ By using her tea infuser and brewing with specific herbs, Elena can imbue her tea with the essence of a memory. Drinking the tea allows a person to briefly recall a personal memory that feels clearer and more vivid. (Effect duration: 10 minutes, no effect on repressed memories)

Forget-Me-Not ⫻ This tea, brewed with a carefully selected blend, helps protect memories from external influences. It acts as a mental shield, strengthening a person’s recollections and making it harder for them to forget details over time. (Effect duration: several hours, no effect on naturally fading memories)

Echo’s Brew ⫻ Elena can create a tea that, when sipped, reveals faint whispers or feelings left behind by those who have visited the area before her. This brew’s effects allow her to tap into past emotions within her immediate vicinity, giving her a general sense of prior events. (Range: 10 meters, duration: 15 minutes)

LIMITS ⫻ Elena’s spells require both time and focus to brew, so she can’t create magical teas on the fly—they must be carefully prepared in a controlled environment, typically taking several minutes to brew each blend. Additionally, each tea’s effects are limited by the emotional or historical significance of the herbs she selects; ordinary or low-emotion ingredients weaken the magic. Excessive use of her abilities results in strong mental and physical fatigue, requiring her to rest between brewing sessions, especially after using multiple teas in succession.

WEAKNESSES ⫻ Memory Brew ⫻ The brew is slightly addictive at best, and an obsession at worst. Those who experience these more vivid memories will begin to develop a taste for it, and this taste could turn into a full-blown need. The more they experience the less vivid reality will become, and the less vivid reality becomes the more intense these magical memories will seem. Eventually, someone could become entirely dependent on the brew. The withdrawal will also be painful and could lead to serious physiological issues if not handled correctly.

Forget-Me-Not ⫻ No weakness

Echo’s Brew ⫻ If this tea is sipped near the location of a recent, terrible tragedy the user could become overwhelmed by the
past emotions.

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Nothing like a good story, even if it’s someone else’s."

Hobbyist Photographer ⫻ Elena has a small collection of vintage cameras and loves snapping shots of abandoned buildings and hidden spots around Cloverfield. She keeps the photos in a journal, sometimes scribbling down little observations or mysteries to revisit.

Tea Blending ⫻ Thanks to her time helping in her mom’s herbal shop, Elena has picked up the art of blending teas. She often brews her own custom blends for energy, calm, or clarity, sometimes adding a few ‘secret ingredients’ to bring out certain memories or emotions.

Quirky Collector⫻ Elena has an eye for unusual trinkets and objects, especially those with a story. Her room is filled with odd finds—a chipped porcelain figurine, a single vintage glove, a worn playing card—each with its own mystery she likes to ponder.

Recollections: Primal Sinister

Elena Castellano

"Curiosity never killed the cat—she just came back a little wiser."

_______________________________________________ Elena Castellano She/Her | 20 | Mixed (Spanish and African American) | 5'6" | 135lbs _______________________________________________ Charismatic _______________________________________________ Skills & Talents "I’ve learned to read people, places, and the stuff they try to hide." ___________________________________ [+] [Street Smarts] ⫻ Growing up on the South Bank, Elena has developed a solid understanding of navigating Cloverfield’s rougher areas. She knows how to read situations, identify potential threats, and move safely within the city. [People Reading] ⫻ Elena has a knack for picking up on body language and subtle cues, helping her sense what others may be feeling or hiding. This skill aids her in her social interactions and investigations. [Basic Herbology] ⫻ Having helped her mother in their herbal shop, Elena has a working knowledge of basic herbs and plants. She can mix simple remedies and teas, mostly for calming or minor healing. [Photo Documentation] ⫻ Elena’s eye for photography helps her document her explorations. She captures details others might miss, giving her a catalog of evidence and memories of her discoveries, which also aids her investigative work.

Appearance ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔ "Yeah, this is as dressed up as I’m gonna get." Elena stands at 5’6”, with a natural, laid-back look that matches her easygoing personality. Her medium-length, dark curly hair is often left loose, framing her face in soft waves, though she’ll occasionally pull it up into a ponytail or messy bun when she’s on the move. Her warm brown skin has a natural glow, and she doesn’t fuss much with skincare beyond the basics—her appearance is effortlessly polished without too much attention. Her style leans heavily toward casual, comfortable clothing. She favors fitted t-shirts, tank tops, or loose sweaters paired with well-worn jeans or leggings, often throwing on a light jacket or hoodie if it’s cooler out. Her footwear of choice is usually sneakers or ankle boots, sturdy enough for the city streets but relaxed enough to reflect her low-maintenance vibe. Elena likes earthy tones—soft browns, olive greens, and muted reds—but she’s not afraid to mix in brighter colors when the mood strikes. She’s usually seen wearing minimal jewelry, like small hoop earrings or a simple pendant necklace, adding just a touch of personality without going overboard. Her accessories are practical: a crossbody bag where she keeps her notebook and a few other essentials, and occasionally a beanie or baseball cap when she wants to keep her hair out of her face. She rarely bothers with makeup, but when she does, it’s subtle—just a bit of mascara or a hint of lip balm to enhance her natural look. Her eyes, always full of curiosity and wit, are her most expressive feature, often hinting at the sarcastic comment that’s about to follow. Her overall style is relaxed and functional, but it carries a certain effortless charisma that makes her stand out without trying too hard.

_{Psychology
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"It’s all just one big puzzle, and I don’t plan on leaving pieces out."

MAIN GOAL ⫻ Elena’s goal is to uncover Cloverfield’s hidden layers, delving into the city’s forgotten histories and magical underpinnings without getting pulled into its web of power struggles. She sees herself as a witness to Cloverfield’s strange and shifting story, not a hero—and she prefers it that way.

PHILOSOPHY ⫻ Life is short, so Elena believes in making it as interesting as possible. She approaches each day as if there’s always something worth discovering, and she thinks everyone, from the wealthiest elite to the lowest wanderer in the South Bank, has a story worth listening to, even if it’s just for the thrill of the unknown.

SECRETS ⫻ Despite her laid-back attitude, Elena is afraid that her carefree outlook might be a cover for deeper anxieties about herself and the world around her. She wonders if her fascination with Cloverfield’s mysteries is just a way to avoid facing her own fears of commitment, loss, or personal vulnerability.

SEXUALITY ⫻ Bisexual. Elena is drawn to people with a strong sense of self, regardless of gender, though she often keeps relationships casual to avoid emotional entanglements that feel too binding.

FEARS ⫻ Her biggest fear is losing her independence, either through the dangerous entanglements in Cloverfield’s underworld or by succumbing to the more treacherous elements she uncovers. The Cataclysm reinforced her aversion to being tied down, as she saw firsthand how fast things could fall apart.

WHAT DID THEY DO DURING THE CATACLYSM? ⫻ When Nyrah the Ravager descended, Elena and her mother were among the South Bank residents scrambling to protect what little they had. The emotional surge of the event triggered Elena’s Kindling, connecting her to her ancestors’ magic. The experience left her both awed and unsettled, fueling her curiosity about Cloverfield’s magical legacy and her desire to understand the city’s supernatural history.

FLAWS ⫻ Elena’s sarcastic, unbothered attitude often comes across as dismissive, especially when others are dealing with serious issues. Her independence borders on recklessness, and she sometimes relies too heavily on charm and quick wit to avoid or defuse tense situations. Her refusal to form deep attachments can prevent her from fully trusting others, making her prone to handling matters alone—even when she’d be better off asking for help.

_{Backstory
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"This city keeps its secrets close… but not close enough."

Elena grew up on Cloverfield’s South Bank, where life was as tough as the city’s worn-out pavement. Her mother, a resilient herbalist, ran a small shop tucked away in a narrow alley. The shop was known among locals for its remedies and teas, blending traditional medicine with Cloverfield’s subtle, lingering magic. Elena spent her childhood there, weaving through shelves stacked with dried herbs and jars of vibrant potions, watching her mother tend to people from all walks of life.

As she got older, Elena grew familiar with the South Bank’s harsh realities. The lack of investment in her community was glaring, and even as the North side glittered with opulent nightclubs and skyscrapers, the South Bank was left in the shadows, struggling with neglect, crime, and a heavy-handed police presence. This disparity between the two sides of Cloverfield sharpened Elena’s natural curiosity and sense of independence, shaping her into a young woman who could navigate any situation with charm and quick wit.

The Cataclysm struck when Elena was 18, ripping through the city with Nyrah the Ravager’s destructive magic. She and her mother were among those scrambling to salvage their shop, with its delicate shelves and walls barely able to withstand the chaos. In the turmoil, Elena experienced a powerful emotional surge—fear, determination, and anger collided within her, triggering her Kindling Event. In that moment, she connected to her ancestors’ magic, a mix of memories, knowledge, and wisdom, passed down through generations of her family. The experience was overwhelming yet oddly familiar, like stepping into a story she’d heard a hundred times but was only now beginning to understand.

After the Cataclysm, Elena felt an even stronger pull toward Cloverfield’s hidden stories and supernatural secrets. As she helped her mother rebuild their herbal shop, Elena began to experiment with her magical abilities, finding ways to weave memories and protective charms into her tea blends. These brews became her gateway to understanding the city’s past, its lingering energies, and the emotional imprints left by its inhabitants.

Now, Elena carefully balances her time between aiding her mother in the shop and using her teas to explore Cloverfield’s mysteries. She often collects herbs and relics that might add potency to her brews, and her blends have become a valuable tool for uncovering the truths behind strange occurrences—like the whispered tales of werewolf packs, strange lights in the lower districts, and mysterious disappearances that seem too frequent to be mere coincidence.

Elena keeps her abilities discreet, sharing her brews only with those she trusts, aware of how dangerous her teas’ effects could be if they fell into the wrong hands. She doesn’t see herself as a hero—she’s more of a curious soul drawn to the shadows, piecing together the city’s story one brew at a time. For Elena, Cloverfield is like a living puzzle, layered with secrets, and she’s determined to unravel as much of it as she can without losing herself in the process.

_{Abstraction
^{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Some things just brew better with a little magic."

TYPE ⫻ Adept

LUX ⫻ White (Nostalgia) — Elena has an affinity for White Lux, allowing her to gather information from memories, past events, and people. Her connection to White Lux is fueled by her natural curiosity and desire to uncover hidden histories.

CHANNELER ⫻ Elena’s Channeler is a vintage tea infuser passed down through her family. This intricate, antique infuser, etched with faint symbols of her lineage, helps her focus her magic into each blend she creates, tapping into her ancestors’ collective knowledge and intent.

SPELLS ⫻

Memory Brew ⫻ By using her tea infuser and brewing with specific herbs, Elena can imbue her tea with the essence of a memory. Drinking the tea allows a person to briefly recall a personal memory that feels clearer and more vivid. (Effect duration: 10 minutes, no effect on repressed memories)

Forget-Me-Not ⫻ This tea, brewed with a carefully selected blend, helps protect memories from external influences. It acts as a mental shield, strengthening a person’s recollections and making it harder for them to forget details over time. (Effect duration: several hours, no effect on naturally fading memories)

Echo’s Brew ⫻ Elena can create a tea that, when sipped, reveals faint whispers or feelings left behind by those who have visited the area before her. This brew’s effects allow her to tap into past emotions within her immediate vicinity, giving her a general sense of prior events. (Range: 10 meters, duration: 15 minutes)

LIMITS ⫻ Elena’s spells require both time and focus to brew, so she can’t create magical teas on the fly—they must be carefully prepared in a controlled environment, typically taking several minutes to brew each blend. Additionally, each tea’s effects are limited by the emotional or historical significance of the herbs she selects; ordinary or low-emotion ingredients weaken the magic. Excessive use of her abilities results in strong mental and physical fatigue, requiring her to rest between brewing sessions, especially after using multiple teas in succession.

^{Other
_{▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔}}
"Nothing like a good story, even if it’s someone else’s."

Hobbyist Photographer ⫻ Elena has a small collection of vintage cameras and loves snapping shots of abandoned buildings and hidden spots around Cloverfield. She keeps the photos in a journal, sometimes scribbling down little observations or mysteries to revisit.

Tea Blending ⫻ Thanks to her time helping in her mom’s herbal shop, Elena has picked up the art of blending teas. She often brews her own custom blends for energy, calm, or clarity, sometimes adding a few ‘secret ingredients’ to bring out certain memories or emotions.

Quirky Collector⫻ Elena has an eye for unusual trinkets and objects, especially those with a story. Her room is filled with odd finds—a chipped porcelain figurine, a single vintage glove, a worn playing card—each with its own mystery she likes to ponder.