PapaOso

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

The airship's dining hall was quiet, save for the faint hum of the engines below. The man sat at the polished mahogany table, a solitary figure amidst the fine dinnerware and utensils. He was an island of stillness in the otherwise bustling atmosphere, his posture impeccably straight, every movement precise. His cold, calculating eyes scanned the plate before him, a dish laid out with the sort of care one might reserve for a work of art: Karrnathi Ironplate. That is what the chef had called this masterpiece.

The seared meat strips glistened with a sheen of perfectly rendered fat, the edges caramelized to a rich brown. He inspected them first with the sharpness of a master, considering each piece's texture, the precise crispness that marked the perfect execution of a dish. His fork moved delicately, picking up a piece as though handling a precious artifact. Slowly, deliberately, he brought it to his lips, his pale mouth savoring the tender meat in measured bites, not a shred of it wasted.

The dark rye beneath the meat was thick and hearty, crusted with grains that cracked faintly under the weight of his knife. He sliced through it with an elegance that seemed almost ceremonial, as if he were performing a ritual. The crumbs fell in perfect, uniform patterns on the plate. No errant bits. No mess. As he dipped a piece into the butter, he studied the golden sheen of the herbs, his gaze lingering just a moment too long before bringing the morsel to his mouth with a slow, deliberate motion. It was as though he were testing the limits of his own restraint, every bite an exercise in control.

The pickled roots came next, their sharp, tangy aroma mixing with the richness of the meat. His fork pierced a root, lifting it to his lips with the same meticulous care. The bright, almost unnatural color of the vegetables stood in stark contrast to the dark tones of the plate, yet he examined them as if contemplating a philosophical question. The sharp vinegar bite hit his tongue, and for a moment, his eyes flickered in discomfort, but only for a heartbeat, before he suppressed it with a smooth, calculated breath.

The buttered herbed potatoes were the last to be touched, the soft, creamy interior broken open with a slight pressure from his fork. A perfect golden halo of crisp skin encased the potato like a delicate shell. He pressed the soft insides against the plate, then swirled them with the butter, watching as the herbs clung to the surface. With measured calm, he took a bite. There was no rush, no indulgence—only the barest hint of satisfaction that passed over his lips in the smallest of smiles.

His gaze never wavered from the plate as he ate, his movements so graceful and precise that it seemed he might have been orchestrating a lifesaving surgery. Not a single bite was messy. Not a single motion wasted. The entire meal unfolded like a performance—one that he was masterfully in control of.

Once the plate was empty, he set his utensils down with a soft clink, the quiet sound hanging in the air like a closing note. His napkin came to his lips, dabbing them with a clean, slow motion, and his eyes cast upward, almost as if savoring the silence that followed.

After a few moments, the man, satisfied with his meal, pushed the chair back with caution as he stood, returned the chair to its rightful and respectful place, left a handsome tip on his table for his waiter…and departed.

His footsteps echoed softly along the polished corridors of the ship. The faint scent of death—always present, no matter how much he tried to mask it—clung to him like a shadow, noticeable to those who might have been attuned to such things. As he reached his quarters, the door opened with a faint creak. Inside, the room was meticulously arranged, the furniture sparse but elegant, bathed in the faint glow of the sun through the windows.

He moved to a corner of the room, where an intricately carved wooden trunk sat—unassuming at first glance. He knelt before it with the same careful precision he had demonstrated throughout his meal, his hands moving with purpose as he unlatched the brass clasps.

Inside, the bag lay waiting—its contents hidden beneath layers of fabric. As he slowly unzipped it, the innards were revealed with an almost reverential touch.

A severed head, its face frozen in a grimace of despair, and several severed hands, their fingers still curling slightly as though trying to grasp at something just out of reach. The sight was unsettling, yet his gaze softened with something approaching joy. He ran a finger lightly across one of the hands, his expression filled with hints of subtle pleasure.

Without hesitation, his hand reached over and delicately picked up the severed head, bringing it slowly to meet his eyes. He studied its lifeless features, his fingers tracing the edge of the jawline as though he were reacquainting himself with an old friend.

"You’ve been quiet," he murmured, his voice soft, almost affectionate. "I missed our conversations. Do you remember the last time we spoke? Of course, you do." He tilted his head, as if waiting for a response, then sighed. "Always so stubborn."

His eyes narrowed slightly, and with a sudden, unsettling tenderness, he leaned in and kissed the head on the lips. The gesture was slow, deliberate, and disturbingly intimate—lips meeting cold, lifeless skin in a moment that seemed to stretch on unnervingly long.

The silence that followed was thick and palpable, and as he placed the head back into the bag with the same reverence as before, the air in the room seemed to grow heavier, more suffocating. But not for the man…not for that dreaded Necromancer. He was right at home.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Mentions: Ezekiel @helo

---

By the time the soldier disappeared into the corridor leading toward Sick Bay, she was already descending the stairs behind him, footsteps quiet, deliberate. No one noticed her leave the upper deck. No one ever did...until she wanted them to.

The air in Sick Bay was cold, sterile, efficient. She did not enter fully, only lingered at the threshold of a side hallway, mostly obscured behind a half-parted curtain meant for privacy. From here, she could see clearly.

The boy lay on the cot, pale but peaceful in sleep. The damage had been set properly by the medics—splinted, stabilized, and managed with practiced hands. But this was the real work.

The man stood at the child’s side, glove removed, palm resting lightly against the boy’s arm. An amulet pulsed faintly on his wrist. Not just a symbol. A conduit.

The glow that spilled from beneath the cloth over his missing eye shimmered like a wound in reality—quiet and unflinching. His voice, low and steady, broke the silence in quiet prayer. Words in reverence to the Silver Flame, spoken with conviction but not spectacle. A soldier’s prayer, plain and stripped of ornament, yet filled with weight.

She watched intently.

The way his shoulders rose and fell, the stillness of his fingers, the utter concentration carved into every line of his body. This was no charlatan healer, no hedge-priest mimicking power. This was faith, channeled like a scalpel. He believed—and worse, his belief worked.

The boy’s breath steadied. Color returned to his cheeks.

Interesting.

The Silver Flame. How quaint... and yet, how terribly effective. Even those heretical, zealot cunts could be useful from time to time.

She waited until it was done.

Waited until the boy was tucked in again, the healing complete, and the soldier’s hand had withdrawn. The soft hum of clerics and medics returned to the air like birdsong after thunder.

Only then did she step forward.

No footsteps. No fanfare. One moment the hallway was empty, and the next, she was there—standing near the edge of the curtain, still cloaked in the faint scent of old paper and strange perfume. Her voice came like wind behind his shoulder.

“And here they say the age of good men has come and gone...” she announced, followed by the slightest of pauses before continuing.

"Yet you care for the wounded with real conviction,” she said softly. “And skill. That is… rare.”

Her tone wasn’t reverent. Just matter-of-fact. Like a scholar noting the properties of a rare mineral.

“I watched you. Not just now.” She stepped into view fully, hands folded at her waist, expression unreadable. Her dark coat clung to her like a second skin, and her eyes—sharp and unsettlingly calm—did not blink as they found his.

“You carry yourself like a man with purpose. That, too, is rare.”

A long pause. She studied him for just a breath longer than was comfortable.

“I have a task. A sensitive one. And I find myself in need of someone… like you.”

She glanced toward the boy, then back at Ezekiel. “Someone with a steady hand. And a discerning eye.”

Her lips curled into the faintest, most elegant approximation of a smile. Not warm. Not unkind. Just... precise.

“If you have a moment, I’d like to speak with you in private.”

There was no command in her voice. Just a quiet certainty that this was an invitation one did not ignore.

She waited.

Unhurried. Patient.

As though she already knew the answer.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Gears

Interactions: Mentions pretty much everyone at the bar. Interacts directly with Phia @princess

Steam puffed softly from Gears’ shoulder vents as she observed the growing circus around her bar.

One minute it was just the pretty pink-haired rock-trader and her frost-flavored protector, and now—

Well.

She blinked slowly as it all unfolded.

Wendel had appeared and was asking about mead. He was kind to her in a real way. A good way.

Then, Bastion introduced himself. The name fit. Sturdy, soft-spoken, with a kind of quiet strength that didn’t need announcing. He stood a little apart from the others, like he didn’t quite know if he belonged. She knew that stance. Knew it deep.

For a moment, Gears just watched him.

Something about the way he carried himself… gentle, but reserved. Braced like someone always half-expecting to be called a weapon again.

She felt it in her chestplate. That old, hollow pang.

He’s like me, she thought. Not just Warforged—forged different.

The sight of him pulled at memories she kept boxed up and rusted over. Days she didn’t talk about. Orders barked. Friends fallen. The sting of knowing you were built for something you didn’t choose.

And yet...

Her optics softened slightly as he glanced her way, unsure. Kind. Too kind for something built for battle.

That made two of them.

Then…he complimented her movements…which was a new one, for sure.

It was at that time that Bobi cannonballed into her chestplate and was now waxing poetic about her “plating curvature” like some kind of tiny, bearded pervert. A tiefling girl had been called filth by some self-righteous dick of a Dragonborn, and a squirrely red-headed girl yeeped herself off a barstool like a clumsy child.

It was a LOT.

Gears stared at nothing for a long second.

She tapped the bar once, twice. Then let out a slow, metallic sigh that said more than words ever could

Still, her hands were already moving. A warm cup of tea for Menzai here, a steaming bowl for the tiefling girl there. Mead for the Dwarf. The food Phia ordered, with a few veggies to make the wolfman happy but not enough to ruin he sweet girl’s meats. She even placed a fresh cloth near the fallen scarf-girl without saying a word…just in case she needed to clean herself off.

Then she heard it again.

That voice. Bright and airy.
“Thank you, shiny one.”

Gears turned.

Phia was standing there, eyes wide and filled with earnest curiosity. She looked like she belonged on a festival float, not in a bar. The air around her practically jingled with magic and mischief.

“Can you tell us your name? And what species you are?”“Are you a rock girl?”

Gears blinked.

And for a moment, everything stilled.

Then she let out the gentlest little puff of a laugh. Almost motherly.

“You are just too sweet, aren’t ya?”

She leaned her elbows on the bar, chin tipping slightly, voice dropping to a softer tone.

“I’m Gears, sugar. Just Gears. And I’m a Warforged, though if you wanna call me a rock girl, I’ll allow it. Ain’t the worst nickname I’ve earned.”

Her eyes—those warm cyan lights—softened a bit more.

“And you must be Phia.” She nodded slightly toward Menzai, then back to the elf. “He looks after you real careful. That says plenty good about you.”

She reached beneath the bar and came back with a simple pastry—a little twist of bread drizzled with sweet glaze. She set it in front of Phia with care.

“Maybe this can make up for those yucky veggies, eh? And don’t you fret none about the coin just yet.”

Then, more gently, almost a whisper.

“Also, do you mind if I ask you something sweetheart? You doin' alright? Sky this high can be a lot, especially on your first flight. Just takes some gettin' used to, is all.”

She didn’t push. Just let the words hang there like a warm blanket left nearby, waiting in case someone needed it.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Warrior
Location: Airship; Top Deck - Bar
Interactions: Talis
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: 25 gold
Injuries:
☼ None, but signs of past battle damage remain.

Bastion had gone very still.

Not out of fear. Or confusion. Or even concern.

Just... stillness. Like a sculpture that had been animated for just long enough to walk into this moment, and was now deciding what to make of it.

A lot had happened in the time it took him to sit down.

There was the gnome with the beard and the velocity, and the complete disregard for spatial awareness. He had made contact with the bartender names Gears in a manner Bastion could only describe as "not normal." Bastion had winced internally at the sound of the collision—a solid clang, followed by a flurry of commentary, admiration, and what he suspected might be... flirting?

Then the cloaked girl had become the not-cloaked girl, and she was made of stars. Truly—her skin shimmered like the night sky, like someone had bottled midnight and poured it into her veins. Bastion thought it was beautiful. So did Wendel, apparently, whose gentle kindness in the moment made Bastion feel... something. He didn’t know what, exactly. But it was good.

There was also yelling.

Not from Wendel. Not from the girl. From the dragonborn.

Again.

The same one who had shouted at Bastion earlier. The one who saw threats in metal and now shadows in skin. Bastion didn’t react this time. Not outwardly. He just noted the pattern. Logged it. Watched.

But then Menzai moved.

The man in white. The wolf. There was a sharpness to his motion—graceful, yes, but also controlled. Contained. Like something dangerous had just brushed against its leash. Bastion watched as he crossed the deck with purpose, quiet and low like a storm cloud on four legs.

It was a lot to process.

And then...

There was a sound.

Not a scream, exactly. Not quite a yelp.

More of a... yeep.

His eyes turned.

She had fallen. The red-haired woman at the edge of the bar—the one with the big eyes and the papers trying to escape her bag, and the posture of someone who had been holding their breath for far too long. Now she was on the floor, limbs tangled, dignity slightly dented, insisting she was fine in a voice that said otherwise.

No one else moved.

So Bastion did.

He stood up slowly, the joints in his legs releasing a soft hssssk as he did so. One step. Two. His footsteps made no hurry, but they were heavy enough to be heard. He stopped beside her, tilting his head down like a confused animal.

"You fell," he observed.

Talis blinked up at him from her seated sprawl. "Yes," she replied weakly. "That... that did happen."

A pause.

"Do you require medical assistance? Or a blanket, perhaps?"

Talis stared at him.

Then laughed. Just once. A startled, breathless sound like a hiccup got caught on a giggle. "No blanket, thank you. But a do-over would be great. If you have one. Do those come standard, or...?"

Bastion crouched down. It was not a graceful movement. His knees made a mechanical creak, and his scarf hung awkwardly around his plated legs.

"I do not have a do-over," he said. "But I can offer a hand."

He extended it. Carefully. Like he was presenting her with a gift.

Talis looked at the hand. Then at him. Then back at the hand.

"You're very... tall," she said. It sounded like a warning. Or maybe a confession.

"Yes," he agreed. "And you are very on the floor."

That earned another tiny laugh. She took his hand.

He pulled her up with alarming gentleness. For someone made mostly of metal and wood, Bastion moved with the kind of careful precision you’d expect from someone holding a newborn chick. He even dusted off her satchel for her when she wasn’t looking.

She swayed a little as she regained her footing.

"Thank you," she murmured, cheeks redder than her curls. "That was very kind. And I, uh... I meant to do all of that. Just so you know."

"The fall?"

"The whole thing. Dramatic flair. I call it character development."

Bastion paused, processing.

Then nodded.

"I don't understand."

There was a long pause.

Talis stared at him again, uncertain if she was supposed to walk away now. Bastion stared at her, uncertain if she was perhaps broken. Neither moved.

Finally:

"I'm Talis," she said, because someone had to talk if neither was going to leave. "Professor. Formerly. Kind of. It's complicated."

Bastion inclined his head. "I am Bastion. I am not a professor. Formerly or currently."

"Noted," Talis said, lips twitching.

Another silence.

Then:

"You have excellent posture," Bastion added.

Talis blinked. "Oh. Wow. Thank you. I... try. To... stand."

He looked pleased. Or at least he tilted his head in a way that suggested someone had told him this was the correct reaction to a compliment being accepted.

Behind them, the bar continued to buzz with life. Menzai still loomed near the dragonborn, Wendel sat like a wise old sentinel, the pretty pink-haired girl shimmered with energy, and the gnome was probably doing very gnome related things.

But for a moment, none of that was imperative.

Bastion had found someone who had fallen.

And now she was standing again. And sometimes, that's all that matters.

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.”