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Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)

Hedra barely spared Mordecai a glance, her focus locked onto Ephraim as she adjusted her grip on the cane.

With no hesitation, no doubt, she raised it high.

The weight of the polished wood felt unnatural in her hands—too delicate, too refined—but that didn’t matter. A weapon was a weapon. And Ephraim had given the command.

Her muscles coiled. Her stance braced.

And then—
 
Mordecai’s breath hitched, his pupils dilating as a searing heat coiled in his chest. The moment Hedra lifted the cane higher, something inside him snapped.

Shadows erupted. They surged from the alley’s edges like living things, twisting and convulsing in jagged, erratic pulses. The flickering lantern light dimmed, as if swallowed by an unseen force, the air thickening under an oppressive weight. The very space around them shuddered, warping at the edges, reality bending to accommodate something far more ancient, far more wrathful.

A tremor ran through Mordecai’s limbs as Wrath’s influence clawed its way up his spine, threading through his veins like molten iron. Shadows coiled along his arms, flickering like fire, shifting like smoke. When his voice came, it was not alone. It was deeper, fractured, layered—something other was speaking with him, through him.

"ENOUGH."

The word boomed, splitting through the air like a thunderclap.

Mordecai ripped free from Hedra’s grasp, dropping to his feet in a staggered motion, but he was no longer retreating. The cane in Hedra’s hands trembled, vibrating as if resisting her hold—and then it wrenched itself from her grasp, pulled back into his waiting fingers as though space itself had bent to his will. A deep, reverberating hum filled the alley as the gathered shadows coiled, stretching toward Hedra’s fingers before snapping back like a beast barely leashed.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Wrath’s fury wasn’t directed at Ephraim. No—Mordecai’s presence was still there, his control lingering just enough to react, to shield. His protection over her was instinctive.

But it didn’t last.

As soon as the cane returned to his grasp, Wrath surged forward, fully in control.

Mordecai’s stance shifted, his body stalking forward in slow, deliberate steps—not toward Hedra. Toward Ephraim. His glowing crimson eyes locked onto her, but it was the third eye, Wrath’s eye, that burned between his own, staring her down with something far worse than rage—fury, yes, but also fixation.

"What is this?"
His voice dripped venom, a rasping, snarling demand. "What. Is. THIS?"

His arm snapped outward in a sharp, furious motion, fingers flexing like claws, as if the very question itself disgusted him.

"Do you think I am something you can summon? A command to be given? A DOG to be WHISTLED FOR?" His voice roared, the alley walls trembling under the weight of it.

Wrath laughed, the sound sharp, cutting—but it held no warmth, no mirth. It was mockery. His shadows stretched and rippled, distorting across the walls, warping into something unnatural, something that watched. In the flickering glow of the lanterns, a twisted, skeletal figure took shapenot physical, but cast in shadow, looming, horns curling in an unnatural sprawl, empty sockets seething with silent menace.

His snarl curled back over his teeth, his muscles wound tight with tension, but he didn’t strike. Not yet.

"My, my, little goat," Wrath sneered, the words almost a purr but layered with danger. His burning gaze raked over her, head tilting slightly. "Brave, aren’t we? Does it bring such pride to the goatkin, this defiance? Truly, we fought hard. We do not bow."

Another laugh, this one quieter—dangerous.

But the mirth faded in an instant, his expression twisting back into fury.

"You should know better,"
he growled, the shadows thrashing at the walls like wild, starved beasts. "Than to tempt the dark. To summon something you do not understand."

He leaned forward slightly, just enough for his presence to press against her, his voice dropping lower, his words curling like smoke.

"My shadows, my dear. Not yours."

A beat.

A slow, drawn-out pause.

Then, his head tilted again, amusement creeping back into his tone, dripping in cruel curiosity.

"So tell me, little goat." His smirk widened, cruel and knowing. "What is it you need so desperately from me?"

His third eye stared.

Fixed. Waiting. Amused.


And listening.
 
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The light was blinding, a sudden pulse that cut through the suffocating weight of Wrath’s presence like a blade. It wasn’t fire, it wasn’t searing, but it burned in an entirely different way—something deeper, something Wrath had no word for. The alley disappeared in an instant, reality twisting and snapping into something else entirely.

A figure stood before him. It was tall, slender, its frame impossibly poised. Its body was wrapped in a skin-tight white bodysuit, split along its form in perfect symmetry. Not quite armor, not quite cloth—something else, something that did not need to protect itself. A silver helm covered its face, polished to an immaculate gleam, reflecting nothing. Behind it, eight pure white wings, soft as doves, unfurled with slow, deliberate grace. There was no weight to them, no burden, no tension. It was untouched by battle, unscarred by the world.

Wrath had seen warriors, had faced tyrants, beasts, kings, gods. But this? This was not something that fought. This being had a particular.... familiarity to it.

Then it moved.

Not a step, not a shift, but suddenly closer, as though distance had never been a factor at all. And without a word, without hesitation, without demand—it embraced him; mercy.

The contact was neither forceful nor restrained. It did not hold him down, nor did it restrain his fury. It simply wrapped around him with a certainty that defied everything Wrath was. Like it had always been waiting.

The vision shattered.

The alley snapped back into existence—the flickering lanterns, the jagged shadows, the tension still thick in the air. But Ephraim hadn’t moved. She was still standing in front of him, arms open, unwavering, as if the image he had seen hadn’t been a vision at all.
 
The flash of light was searing, an unbearable presence pressing against Wrath like a weight he had never encountered before. He recoiled violently, a snarl ripping from his throat as if the mere touch of it burned.

"What the hell is that?!" Wrath’s voice boomed, his fury layered with something unfamiliar—disorientation, hesitation. He staggered back, his claws flexing instinctively, grasping at shadows that no longer obeyed him.

Mordecai, caught somewhere between presence and possession, felt it too. He raised an arm over his eyes as if shielding himself from a light that wasn’t physically there, but it was there—inside him, pressing into his ribs, bleeding into his thoughts. A feeling foreign to Wrath, but not to him. Not just mercy. Not kindness. Something deeper.

"Who... are... you..." The words left his lips, but it wasn’t just his voice—it was theirs, overlapping, tangled between the mortal and the monstrous. Mordecai blinked hard, trying to ground himself, but Wrath was the one truly shaking. He had seen it. Felt it. And Wrath, who had challenged gods and waged wars, who had devoured kings and burned empires—he retreated.

The shadows recoiled, slithering back like wounded beasts, some vanishing into the alley, others crawling back into Mordecai’s body like an instinctive retreat to safety. The third eye snapped shut, disappearing into his forehead like it had never existed. Wrath had gone silent.

Mordecai barely had a second to process before his legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed onto the cold stone, every nerve in his body aching—whether from Hedra’s assault, Wrath’s struggle, or whatever the hell that had been, he couldn’t tell. His breath came ragged, his muscles stiff as he forced himself to sit up, wincing from the strain.

"Ugh…" he exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders and shaking off the last remnants of Wrath’s presence. He lifted his gaze to Ephraim, his copper eyes tired but clear again, their usual sharpness dulled with exhaustion. "Did you get your answers?" he muttered, voice edged with dry humor, though there was a weight behind it—one that hadn’t been there before.

Something had changed. He felt it.
 
Ephraim exhaled slowly, rolling the tension from her shoulders, though the weight of whatever just happened still lingered thick in the air. She glanced down at Mordecai, eyes searching, trying to make sense of what she had just witnessed—but there were no easy answers here. She had seen something, felt something, but none of it explained what she needed to know. Not fully. And, by the look in his eyes, neither did he.

She tilted her head slightly, considering his words, then shrugged. “Not really,” she admitted, her tone light despite the weight of the moment. “But I think I got something else instead.” A small smirk tugged at her lips as she reached down, offering him a hand. “I’ll figure out what that is later.”

Behind them, Hedra finally let out a breath, shaking out her arms like she had just come out of a fight. “That was… intense,” she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck before looking down at Mordecai. “Apologies, doc. Didn’t expect it to get that real.” She cracked her knuckles, her expression unreadable for a moment before she huffed. “Nothing ever gives straight answers in this world. Half the time, we don’t even know what questions to ask.”

She turned slightly, rolling her shoulders as she shot a glance toward the street. “Only thing I do know?” Her fists came together with a sharp, deliberate crack, her expression darkening. “Trust no one. Especially not Tommy the Rat.” She spat his name like a curse, nostrils flaring. “Little bastard’s got more schemes than sense.”
 
ordecai stared at Ephraim, still caught somewhere between awareness and shock. He took her hand, allowing her to hoist him up before steadying himself with his cane, taking a slow breath to reorient himself. His body still ached, and his mind reeled, but the chaos was—for now—settling.

"You have… something incredibly powerful in you," he said at last, his voice quieter, more measured. He met her gaze, his copper eyes laced with something unreadable—awe? Caution? Curiosity? "I don’t know what it is, but I’ve never seen anything like it before." His lips twitched slightly, almost smirking, though the expression was more genuine than sharp. "It’s remarkable."

His attention flicked toward Hedra as she spoke, his head tilting slightly at her words. "I’m just glad no one seems to be hurt," he muttered, though his posture betrayed the dull ache still lingering in his ribs. His eyes sharpened slightly as he added, "And don’t apologize. You were… simply following orders. As a true warrior should." His tone was neutral, though the slightest flick of his tail betrayed his mild irritation at having been physically bodied into the cobblestones. But Hedra was loyal, and if she was this devoted to Ephraim’s safety, he wouldn’t push the matter further.

At the mention of Tommy, Mordecai’s brows knit together. Tommy the Rat? He had only vaguely recalled the name—one of the many ratkin frequenting the streets, an acquaintance of Silvano’s, if he remembered correctly. Frankly, it didn’t surprise him that someone like Tommy had managed to make enemies, but for him to get under Hedra’s skin? That was almost impressive.

Still, whatever grudge she held against Tommy was likely justified. Mordecai had met enough schemers in his lifetime to know how dangerous they could be when they were just smart enough to avoid being crushed but not smart enough to stop testing fate.

His gaze slid back to Ephraim. There was more to say. More to do.

"I try to understand Wrath," he admitted, his voice quieter, more contemplative. "Every day. Even when I think I’ve unraveled something—another piece of this curse, another glimpse of his nature—it’s still a puzzle with missing parts." He sighed, running a hand through his disheveled hair before placing it lightly on Ephraim’s shoulder. "But—" His voice steadied, and for a brief moment, he met her gaze with something far rarer than all his usual bitterness.

"I have faith."

He let the words settle, just for a moment, before exhaling and slipping back into his usual, composed demeanor, straightening his posture as the moment passed.

"We can’t afford to stand around in an alley," he continued, his voice regaining its usual sharpness.
 
Ephraim took in his words, his lingering reverence for whatever had just happened, and the way he seemed almost… settled now. At least as much as Mordecai could be settled. But she didn’t linger on it. She had felt something in that moment—something beyond her comprehension—and yet, there was no fear in her. Just curiosity. But curiosity could wait.

She gave him a knowing look, nodding slightly. “You’re right. This isn’t the place to stand around. We should move.” She shifted her weight, rolling her shoulders to shake off the tension before turning toward Hedra and her companion. “We’re heading to the Gardens of Nal'feeth'nee'bar'saw'lou'vera'paw.”

The name rolled off her tongue effortlessly, spoken without hesitation. She might’ve once found it amusing, just as Yam had, but at this point, it was just another weight of familiarity.
 
Mordecai arched an eyebrow at the name of the garden, turning it over in his mind like a puzzle piece that almost fit but not quite.

"That is… quite the name," he mused, the weight of it rolling uneasily on his tongue. "With all my knowledge, I can’t say I’ve ever truly understood if there was more significance to it. Then again, I never exactly took the time to visit the gardens myself."

A thoughtful pause. It wasn’t a shocking realization, but still, it settled strangely in him.

His fingers tightened slightly around the handle of his cane before he exhaled, straightening his posture.

"It sounds like the kind of place that holds many secrets," he remarked, glancing at Ephraim.

Then, his gaze flicked toward Hedra and her companion. "And what about you two?" His voice remained measured, but there was a slight edge of curiosity there. "Now that you’ve found Lady Ephraim, does that mean you’re returning to your duties, or...?"

His question was pointed, but his attention shifted back to Ephraim, reading the subtle shifts in her expression.
 
Ephraim gave Mordecai a knowing look, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “Oh, you’ll love the gardens,” she said, amusement laced in her tone, but she didn’t elaborate. Instead, she let the mystery linger between them, offering only a slight shrug. “They’re not exactly open to the public, though. Nor are they easy to find. Which, I imagine, is part of their charm.”

She glanced at Hedra as Mordecai’s question hung in the air, waiting for her response. The wildebeestkin stood still for a moment, arms crossed, considering the weight of her decision. Finally, she exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders back.

“I’ll go with you,” Hedra said, voice firm but neutral. “But I can’t enter the gardens myself.” She said it like a fact, something long since accepted rather than resented. “Boundaries, rules, whatever you want to call it—I won’t cross them.”

Her companion, standing silently beside her until now, inclined his head at her words. Without a word, he turned on his heel and departed, vanishing into the dimly lit streets like a shadow slipping away.

Ephraim watched him go for a moment before starting forward, her steps purposeful yet relaxed. “Come on, then,” she called over her shoulder, setting the pace. “It’s better to walk and talk. The path isn’t as straightforward as you might think.”
 
Mordecai tilted his head slightly, his smirk subtle but present. “You truly do hold much mystery to you,” he mused, the words carrying both genuine intrigue and a quiet compliment. He studied Ephraim for a moment, as if trying to see past the veil of amusement she so often wore.

Then, shifting his attention back to Hedra, his ears flicked at her statement—she wouldn’t be able to enter. Not wouldn’t, but couldn’t. There was weight in that choice of words, and Mordecai never ignored the weight of words.

“Interesting,” he murmured, his copper eyes flickering with thought. “A place that not everyone can enter… I’ll admit, that only makes me more curious.” His tail gave a slight flick before he straightened his posture, offering a small nod to Hedra in understanding. Whatever the reason was, she had already accepted it. No need to pry.

Then, with a slight gesture of his horns down the alley, he inclined his head toward Ephraim. “Lead the way, then. Let’s see what makes this place so special.”

The smirk lingered just slightly, but beneath it was a quiet, thoughtful anticipation. He had stepped into many unknowns lately. This was just another one.
 
Ephraim led them further into the city, the streets twisting like veins, pumping what remained of civilization through its broken arteries. The deeper they walked, the more the atmosphere shifted—not just lawless, but unmoored. This wasn’t the frenzied chaos of looting and violence; this was something else. A city holding its breath, waiting for something to tip it fully into the abyss.

Their path led them to a structure that loomed over the surrounding buildings, a place that had once been a monument to wealth and commerce. Even before Unity fell, it had been an anomaly—an enclosed market, sprawling like a beast sprawled over its kill, filled with halls that wound together in a labyrinthine sprawl of stone corridors and iron walkways. It was a relic of an older era, when trade was as much about spectacle as it was about goods. Before, it had been home to fine tailors, jewelers, bookbinders, artifact merchants. Now, it had become something else.

A refuge. A hideaway. A last bastion for those trying to survive in a city with no more rules.

The towering doors at the entrance were guarded, flanked by two imposing figures—black jackals, tall and thick with muscle, their armor worn but well-kept. Their sharp eyes tracked Ephraim, Mordecai, and Hedra as they approached, not with immediate hostility, but with the quiet calculation of men who had seen enough to expect anything.

The doorway itself was grand but faded, carved stone arches framing an entrance large enough to fit a procession of carriages. Above it, an old banner still clung stubbornly to the walls, Unity’s emblem now half-covered by a newer mark—graffiti painted in dark crimson, a sigil that looked almost like a sun eclipsed by a hand.

Activity swarmed behind the doors, the dim glow of lanterns and the murmur of a gathered crowd spilling out into the street.

Ephraim slowed, tilting her head slightly as she regarded the guards. She’d been here before, but it had been years. Even when law still held sway, this place had always been more than just a marketplace—it was a world unto itself.

She glanced at Mordecai, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Still curious?” she asked, though the answer was obvious.

Without waiting for a response, she stepped forward. The jackals stiffened slightly, their hands hovering near their weapons—not in open aggression, but in readiness.

“State your business,” one of them said, his voice low, gravelly. He was the taller of the two, his dark-furred ears twitching ever so slightly, his sharp amber eyes locked onto Ephraim.

She met his gaze, utterly unbothered. “Passing through.”

The other jackal, slightly broader, shifted his stance, crossing his arms over his chest. “Passing through to where?”

Ephraim smiled. “The gardens.”

A beat of silence.

The jackals exchanged a glance, something unspoken passing between them. Then, the taller one turned his gaze back to Ephraim, studying her closely.

“That’s a long way through,” he said, his voice still measured, though there was the faintest hint of something else beneath it—curiosity, perhaps. “And we don’t let just anyone through these doors.”

Ephraim’s smirk didn’t falter. “Lucky for you, I’m not just anyone.”

The jackals didn’t move immediately. The taller one took his time, looking over the group—his gaze lingering just a second longer on Mordecai, his expression unreadable but suspicious. Then, slowly, he stepped aside.

“Don’t cause trouble,” he warned.

Ephraim patted him lightly on the shoulder as she passed, a wordless thank-you wrapped in a flicker of familiarity. The jackal exhaled through his nose, not quite a sigh, but close.

Then, just like that, they were inside.

The change in atmosphere was instant

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The air was thick with the scent of smoke, spice, and too many bodies pressed into too little space. The grand halls, once pristine, were now draped in makeshift banners, wooden stalls cluttering the open floors where once polished stone had gleamed. Some vendors still sold goods—food, clothing, stolen wares—but others had taken up different trades. There were mercenaries advertising their skills, fortune tellers seated behind thick curtains, message boards littered with desperate pleas and cryptic offers.

Music drifted through the corridors, played by street performers who seemed to exist in their own world, strumming old tunes while the rest of the city crumbled. Overhead, the balconies and upper walkways were occupied by those who preferred to stay out of the thick of things, their presence barely more than shadows against the dim lantern light.

It was alive. But it was eerie.
 
Mordecai stepped through the doors, his grip tightening around his cane as his copper eyes flickered across the shifting crowd. The air was dense with movement, voices layering over each other in a tangled hum of deals, threats, and whispers barely caught. His gaze trailed over the makeshift market, noting the mercenaries, the vendors, the message boards littered with desperate scrawls—each one a thread in the larger, unraveling state of the city. Above, figures loomed on the walkways, watching like carrion birds waiting for something to fall. His ear flicked at the distant melody of a string instrument, oddly haunting in contrast to the tension pressing in from all sides. He exhaled slowly, letting the weight of the place settle over him before glancing at Ephraim. “Charming,” he muttered dryly. Then, narrowing his eyes, he let his gaze sharpen, scanning the room for anything—anyone—that stood out.

Dice Roll: observing the place
 
Mordecai’s sharp eyes flicked between the details, the information stacking in his mind like pieces of a puzzle yet to be fully arranged. He tightened his grip on his cane, his thumb idly brushing over the worn surface as he took in everything—the structure, the kin, the eerie sameness of the jackalkin.

The guards at the entrance had been black jackalkin—an uncommon species in Unity. At first, he had taken them for nothing more than stationed sentries, but now, as his gaze flickered between the crowd, he saw more of them. Too many. Spread throughout the marketplace, standing at corners, blending into the edges, but all with the same armor, the same stance, the same unreadable, waiting presence.

He exhaled through his nose. These weren’t just guards. They were something else.

His mind retraced the language used before. Gardens of Nal'feeth'nee'bar'saw'lou'vera'paw.

But also, “You know, the ones out in Nal'feeth'nee'bar'saw'lou'vera'paw.”

It wasn’t as though the phrase referred to a specific location within it—it was more like the city and the gardens were one and the same. Or, at the very least, this was some kind of threshold. A waiting place. A filtering ground.

Mordecai subtly tilted his head as he picked up murmurs from passing kin.

"I’ve been waiting for my turn to get in. If they’d just let me speak to someone—"

"Three times, I’ve tried. They always say I’m not ready. What does that even mean?"


A test? A selective process? Who decides who enters?

His gaze drifted back to the jackals. Unmoving. Watching. Waiting.

The same armor. The same posture. The same expressions. Are they waiting for people to come out? Or are they denying people entrance? The way the ones at the entrance had spoken—“Don’t cause trouble.” No hostility, just control. Their presence wasn’t aggressive, but it was deliberate. These weren’t normal guards.

Mordecai inhaled slowly, piecing it together. Something here is manifesting from the Gardens. The kin within this market… they aren't in the Gardens yet.

They were waiting.
 
Mordecai exhaled slowly, his grip tightening just slightly around his cane as his mind pieced together the unsettling puzzle in front of him. His copper eyes flicked between the waiting kin, the silent jackalkin, the way everything here felt paused—a crossroads where only some would move forward.

But Ephraim, as ever, was composed. Familiar. Confident. She hadn’t so much as hesitated in leading them here, hadn’t faltered under the watchful gaze of the jackalkin outside. If this place had rules, unspoken expectations, she already knew them.

His gaze flicked back to her, studying her expression carefully before he finally spoke.

“Ephraim, this seems like a place with a process. A system with…” he paused, his grip adjusting slightly on his cane as he considered his own words, “expectations. Judgments, even.”

His brow lifted slightly, his voice light but edged with curiosity. “You seem confident, though.” His eyes narrowed, not in suspicion, but in quiet analysis. “Mind enlightening me?”

Wrath stirred within Mordecai—a subtle, almost imperceptible shift, like a predator flicking an ear at a distant sound. It wasn’t a struggle, nor was it painful, but it was aware. Watching. As if, for just a moment, something about this place had caught its interest too.
 
Ephraim led the way toward the back of the structure, her steps sure and unhesitant as they moved deeper into the winding halls. The further they went, the more the air shifted—cooler, heavier, the scent of earth and something faintly floral creeping into the spaces between the stone and torchlight. It wasn’t just an old building. It was growing.

Cracks in the walls and floor had been claimed by creeping vines, thick and gnarled in some places, delicate and flowering in others. The railings bore twisting tendrils of ivy, strange blossoms curling against the carved metal. If she had noticed it before, she didn’t acknowledge it now. This was normal here.

Ahead, two more black jackals stood at the entrance to the stairway leading lower. Identical to the ones stationed outside—same stance, same armor, same eerily unreadable expressions. Ephraim’s gaze flicked toward them, but she neither greeted them nor hesitated. She merely kept walking.

Behind her, Hedra slowed her steps. The wildebeestkin exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders as though shaking something off. Then she spoke, voice low. “I’ll wait here.”

Ephraim glanced back at her, nodding once in understanding. There was no questioning it, no insistence that she follow. She knew how this place worked. Some kin made it further. Some didn’t. And Ephraim had spent enough time here to know that pushing Hedra any further would only make it harder for her to leave.

Instead, she turned her attention back to Mordecai, walking beside her, watching everything. She could feel it in his posture, the careful calculation behind his gaze as he observed the jackals, the architecture, the creeping plant life.

He was trying to figure it out.

“You’re going to be fine,” she said simply, her voice even, steady, but laced with something reassuring.

Still, she knew better than to pretend this place was normal to him.

"Some kin have a hard time leaving once they step inside," she admitted, glancing briefly at Hedra before continuing down the steps. "I’ve had to drag her out of here more than once. She’s strong, disciplined, but…" Ephraim trailed off for a second before shrugging lightly. "That’s just how it is. Some get obsessed. Some keep coming back, trying again and again. It’s… hard to explain."

She reached the landing, taking a moment to press her palm against the railing. The vines curled softly beneath her touch, as if drawn to her warmth.

"But I don’t have that problem." The way she said it wasn’t prideful, just matter-of-fact.

"I’ve never been tested. They just let me in."

She glanced at Mordecai, watching for his reaction before continuing. "I figured it was because I was on the council. They respect influence, even here."

WRATH PERCEPTION:


In the beginning, before cities, before kings, before the first kin ever carved their names into stone, there were Four. The oldest. The first. The ones who walked the land before it had names.
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They were not gods, not exactly—something older, something more natural. Forces of the world given flesh. Each embodied a part of the world’s foundation, their power flowing through the land, through the rivers, through the sky, through the molten heart of the earth itself.

The primiordials:
One
burned.
One flowed.
One endured.
One soared.

From them, magic was born—not a chaotic force, but something natural, something woven into the breath of the world itself.

The kin who came after inherited fragments of their power, some stronger than others, but all bound by the same fundamental rules. Elemental magic—the old blood. Aetherblood. It was predictable, structured, bound to the laws of nature. Those who wielded it were powerful, but they were still only working within the system they were given. No matter how much fire burned, how fierce the winds howled, how deep the earth stood, they were finite.

But not everyone was content with rules.

The Primordials shaped the world, but kin? Kin shape each other. And it wasn’t long before power began to change.

There were those who did not simply inherit magic, who did not pull from the elements but from something deeper—something woven into the very souls of kin. These were not gods, not in the way mortals prayed to them, but kin who became something more, something eternal.

There were fourteen of them.

Seven who took. Seven who gave.

First came the Seven Shadows, born not from nature, but from the excesses of mortal hearts. They did not wield fire or water, but hunger, obsession, desire, rage. They were power in its rawest form, untamed, insatiable. Wrath. Greed. Lust. Gluttony. Sloth. Envy. Pride.
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And to balance them, came the Seven Lights.

Mercy. Charity. Chastity. Temperance. Diligence. Kindness. Humility.

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They were not enemies. They did not fight. They simply existed. The world could not be built without both. The war was never between them—it was always in the hearts of mortals.

Unlike the Primordials, the power of the Fourteen was not inherited by blood. It was something deeper, something tied to the spirit. Those who carried their marks did not choose them—they were chosen. And once bound, there was no turning back.

But kin are never content to be something. They must own it. Control it. Twist it into something they can hold. And so, they created Artifice.

The Arcane Enclave, filled with scholars who refused to let magic remain something unpredictable, crafted something called the Grasp of Eternity. A tool, a construct, a system designed to harness magic without divine inheritance.

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From this came artifacts.

Magic, stripped from its source, bottled, contained, forced into objects that even the unworthy could wield.

Artifacts allowed anyone to hold the power of the Fourteen, to wield the elements of the Primordials without lineage. But they were unstable, dangerous.

The strongest artifacts don’t serve their wielders. They consume them.

And when the Grasp of Eternity was in use? The world itself changed. Natural magic faded. The only power left was what kin could hold in their hands.

But artifacts are still real. Their magic still has a source.

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Zealot Magic does not.

Belief is a powerful thing. When kin worship something, it does not matter whether it is real. The world makes room for it.

When kin pour faith into something that does not exist, the world does not reject them. Instead, it creates.

That is how Jinxes are born. Spells that should not work, but do. Prayers answered by gods that were never real to begin with. Power, pulled from nowhere.

Zealot Magic is unstable because it has no true source. It is an echo, a reflection, a lie so believed that it became truth.

And this place?

This place belongs to it.

The Gardens.

At the heart of this place is something born from Zealot Magic. A being that exists because belief demanded it.

The Augur of the Veil.

It is not a Primidoral. It is not one of the 14.
It is a question.

The jackals that lined the halls—they were not kin. They were pieces of the Augur. Manifestations of its presence.

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They do not let kin pass because they are preventing them from meeting it.

The Augur does not reject. It does not grant. It does not turn away.

It only asks one thing.

"Why are you here?"

And if the answer is not enough, if the kin who stands before it is not enough, the Augur does not send them away.

It simply keeps them.

Some kin never return. Some linger here, waiting, believing they are one step away from entry. Some leave… but they are not the same.

And Ephraim—she had never been tested. She walked freely, as if she had already been marked.

Why?

Either she has already passed the test, or she was always meant to enter.

1738289977155.pngZealite: The Augar of the Veil
A name whispered in half-truths, a false prophet whose influence lingers like an inkblot on the fabric of reality. The Augur of the Veil is not kin, not god, not spirit—it is something in between, a manifestation of belief so potent that it forced itself into existence. Once worshipped in the Third Era, it was a beacon for those who sought glimpses beyond the mortal world, luring kin with fragile magic affinities by offering passage into the unknown.

Its presence is heralded by the black jackals—silent sentinels that appear wherever the Augur has chosen to anchor itself. These jackals are not its servants, nor its enforcers. They are warnings. Barriers between the desperate and the inevitable. Their duty is not to obey the Augur, but to deter kin from stepping too close, from straying beyond the threshold where the Augur waits.

For in its wake, the Augur leaves more than just curiosity—it leaves absence. Those who meet it, those who stand before its shifting form, are rarely seen again. It does not take, it does not kill. It simply keeps.

During the Third Era, the Augur’s influence spread unchecked, its sanctuaries growing into places where reality grew thin, where the veil between worlds trembled at its presence. And then, Wrath came.

In a violent reckoning, Wrath razed the Augur’s sanctuary, tearing through the illusion it had wrapped around itself. Fire consumed the false prophet’s domain, and with it, the Augur was cast out, its worship shattered, its voice silenced. But belief is a persistent thing.

And some doors, once opened, do not close so easily.
Though the Augur of the Veil does not grant favor or pass judgment, there is one exception to its indifference—Mercy.

The Augur's fixation on the Light of Mercy is a paradox, as if a being shaped from uncertainty and absence could yearn for something as tangible as absolution. It is unknown whether this obsession was born from worshippers who sought redemption in its name, or if, somewhere in the infinite fractures of belief that sustain it, the Augur longs for something it was never meant to have.

It does not seek her. It does not claim to understand her. But where her mark lingers, the Augur does not harm.

Perhaps that is why Ephraim passed freely—why the black jackals did not rise to bar her path. She was already marked.

Whether she bears the favor of Mercy, or whether the Augur simply believes she does, is unclear. But belief, to a thing like the Augur, is everything.

In the Third Era, the Augur’s sanctuaries were not mere temples, but places where belief distorted reality itself. Words, names, and symbols were rewritten in its presence, shifting into something between language and prophecy. The most infamous of these places was Nal'feeth'nee'bar'saw'lou'vera'paw—a name that is not truly a name, but an echo of the Augur’s influence.

It is said that those who speak it aloud feel a pull, a whisper in the back of their mind—a reminder that even forgotten gods are never truly gone.

What it once meant is unknown.

What it means now is simple.

This place still belongs to the Augur.

Glossary of Terms & Factions

Primordials

  • The Four original forces that shaped the world before time, kings, or civilization. They are not gods, but natural embodiments of the world’s foundation.
    • One burned. (Fire)
    • One flowed. (Water)
    • One endured. (Earth)
    • One soared. (Air)
  • Their power is the root of Aetherblood, or elemental magic—structured, finite, and inherited through lineage.

The Fourteen

  • A group of kin who transcended mortality, becoming something eternal—not gods, but forces tied to the spirit.
  • Their power is not inherited but bestowed upon chosen individuals.

The Seven Shadows (Born from mortal excesses)

  • Wrath (Fury, destruction)
  • Greed (Hunger, insatiability)
  • Lust (Obsession, temptation)
  • Gluttony (Consumption, indulgence)
  • Sloth (Lethargy, stagnation)
  • Envy (Covetousness, resentment)
  • Pride (Arrogance, ambition)

The Seven Lights (Their balancing counterparts)

  • Mercy (Forgiveness, redemption)
  • Charity (Generosity, selflessness)
  • Chastity (Restraint, purity)
  • Temperance (Balance, moderation)
  • Diligence (Perseverance, discipline)
  • Kindness (Compassion, empathy)
  • Humility (Modesty, self-awareness)

The Arcane Enclave & Artifice

  • A faction of scholars who sought to control and manipulate magic through artificial means.
  • They created the Grasp of Eternity, a system designed to extract and bottle magic into Artifacts—objects capable of wielding power without lineage.
  • The strongest artifacts do not serve their wielders; they consume them.

Zealites & Zealot Magic

  • Zealites are false prophets—beings or individuals born from belief rather than reality. They do not inherit divine or natural magic; their power manifests solely because others believe in them.
  • Zealot Magic is unstable, sourced from nothing but faith. It functions like an illusion so deeply believed that it becomes real.
  • The most dangerous aspect of Zealot Magic is its lack of limitations—unlike Aetherblood or Artifice, it does not adhere to natural laws.

The Augur of the Veil

  • A powerful Zealite, a manifestation of belief so strong that it forced itself into existence.
  • Once worshipped in the Third Era, it was seen as a guide to the unknown, offering kin passage beyond the mortal world.
  • Its presence is marked by black jackals, silent sentinels that act as both warnings and barriers.
  • It does not grant power or deny passage—it only asks:
    "Why are you here?"
    Those who fail to answer disappear, neither dead nor alive—simply kept.
 
Mordecai took in the creeping vines, the twisting architecture, the strange, shifting life that curled between stone and shadow. But something gnawed at him, clawing at the edge of his awareness. A pulse in the air, a sensation just beneath the skin.

His eyes narrowed.

This place was mysterious, unsettling—but there was something else. Something familiar in a way that made his stomach twist.

Then, Wrath stirred.

Mordecai exhaled sharply, his body tensing as the energy of the space pressed in. He had spent years drowning Wrath’s voice beneath his own will, controlling, pushing, demanding silence. But now—now it was flooding back.

"Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out. GET OUT."

Wrath’s voice exploded in his skull, a storm of rage and panic crashing against his thoughts.

Mordecai grimaced, his breath hitching as pain split behind his eyes. He took a step forward, but his leg faltered—his own shadow felt heavy, like something was gripping him from below. Holding him back.

Confusion flickered across his face. Wrath had never stopped him before.

Mordecai pushed forward again, only for Wrath’s presence to surge in protest, coiling around his mind like barbed wire.

"This is not where we need to be. That insolent goat has no idea what she’s walking into. This place is a TRAP. GET OUT."

His voice was rising now, frantic, barely restrained fury bleeding into something else—something dangerously close to fear.

Mordecai clenched his teeth, his jaw tightening. His breath came slower, more deliberate, as he wrestled against the weight pressing down on him. His fingers twitched at his sides.

Then, without thinking, he murmured under his breath—

“Wrath… are you scared?”

It was a question that shouldn’t have had weight. Shouldn’t have meant anything.

But Wrath didn’t answer.

He only pushed harder.

Mordecai barely noticed Ephraim watching him now. He felt something pleading from Wrath, something raw, something deeper than just resistance.

He lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Ephraim. There was no accusation in his expression, only something uncertain, trying to piece together what he was feeling, what Wrath refused to explain.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he muttered, his voice low, steady, but laced with something deeper. “Something is off.”

He hesitated for only a second longer before glancing toward the path ahead.

The weight in his chest only grew heavier.

And Wrath kept screaming.
 
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Ephraim’s boots touched the final step, the stone cool beneath her soles as she descended into the last chamber. The air shifted—warmer, fragrant, thick with the scent of blossoms unfurling in the dark.

There were no black jackals waiting at the threshold. No shifting eyes watching from the shadows. The silence here was different—not empty, not lifeless, but still. A hushed reverence hummed through the space, as if the room itself was waiting.

And at the heart of it all stood the archway; the entry into the Garden and spirtuality itself.

Ephraim glanced at Mordecai, taking in the sharp tension in his shoulders, the way his breath came measured but uneven, like he was wrestling something unseen. She had seen him steady before, seen him thoughtful, seen him calculating. But this? This was different.

She stepped closer, her gaze flickering across the dim, floral-lit space ahead—the air thick with the scent of blossoms, something rich and untouched by time. The final level had none of the twisting malice one might expect, none of the creeping dread that should have met them at the bottom of something old and forgotten. Instead, the arched gate ahead was woven with vines, petals blooming soft and delicate against the stone. The air was damp, warm, fragrant—alive.

Ephraim exhaled, slow, deliberate, before shifting her focus back to him.

“You’re wound tight,” she murmured, voice light, even teasing, though not unkind. “I’m starting to think you’re overthinking this.”

She didn’t mean to dismiss him—not entirely. She knew he carried things heavier than most, things that weren’t always his own. But right now? Right now, she didn’t feel danger. She didn’t feel a trap. She felt… peace.

“Isn't it beautiful, Mordecai?” she continued, taking another step forward, running her fingers along a vine curling near the archway. The leaves trembled under her touch, but not in fear—in response. Almost as if they were listening. “Whatever’s ahead—it’s not screaming at us.”

Her gaze softened as she turned back toward him.
 
Wrath halted, his rage snapping toward Ephraim like a whip. Shadows thickened, curling up Mordecai’s spine before he could even react, creeping like hungry tendrils along the floor and walls. The air grew dense, the still reverence of the chamber warping, twisting beneath Wrath’s presence.

"Fine." Wrath seethed, his voice curling around the edges of Mordecai’s mind like smoke. "She thinks she knows everything? Thinks she can walk in here? Can control me? Control my vessel?"

His fury swelled, suffocating, pressing like a weight against the room itself.

"Alright, Augur," Wrath spat, venom dripping from every syllable. "I look forward to bringing you down again. To rid this place of the filth you are."

The chamber shuddered beneath his rage. The creeping darkness along the walls lurched forward, twisting, stretching into something more. A shape took form within the writhing mass—Wrath, distinct yet still shadow, jagged and shifting, his presence too volatile to be bound to a single form.

Then, without warning, he struck.

The darkness collapsed inward, Wrath forcing himself into Mordecai’s body in a violent surge. The impact hit like a crushing wave, a force too strong, too sudden. Mordecai gasped, his breath stolen as pain cracked through his body like lightning. His limbs tensed, his muscles locking beneath the sheer weight of Wrath’s presence forcing him down, forcing him away.

Then his eyes snapped open.

Red.

A deep, searing crimson bled into his gaze, his expression sharp, his body held with a rigid, unnatural control. Wrath turned his head slowly, the movement deliberate, his gaze locking onto Ephraim with cold, piercing intensity. He wanted her to see. To understand. That she was not speaking to Mordecai anymore.

He turned his glare toward the archway ahead, jaw tightening, gaze dark with challenge.

"Let’s go," he said, Mordecai’s voice twisted beneath the weight of something older, something far more dangerous. He didn’t wait for her answer. His steps were firm, steady, carrying him toward the entrance without hesitation.

Wrath was here now. And he was done waiting.
 
Ephraim didn’t flinch. She didn’t cower beneath Wrath’s fury, didn’t shrink as his presence swallowed the chamber whole. Instead, she watched him—really watched him.

Her expression didn’t twist in fear, nor did she brace herself against the storm he had become. Instead, something softer flickered in her gaze—something gentle, knowing. Her lips parted just slightly, as if she might speak, but she didn’t. She only looked at him, the way one might look at an old friend lost to time.

Or the way Mercy might have looked at Wrath.

A glimmer of something deep, something boundless, something utterly unshaken by his rage.

Then she turned. Without hesitation.

Ephraim stepped toward the archway as though she had always been meant to, as though the vines that curled along the stone had parted just for her. And maybe they had. The moment her foot crossed the threshold, the air around her shimmered, rippling like water disturbed by the lightest touch.

Then she was gone.

No resistance. No test. No weight pressing against her.

Just… acceptance.

The portal did not reject her. It did not demand an answer. It only let her through.

And Wrath—still bound within Mordecai—had no choice but to follow.

The moment he crossed, the world shifted.

Gone was the chamber, the stone, the shadows clinging to the walls. Instead, an endless landscape of plants stretched before them, vast and untouched.

The sky above was a soft, muted hue—not quite day, not quite night—as if time itself hesitated to claim this place. Strange, otherworldly flora pulsed with faint, rhythmic light, their colors shifting ever so slightly with the wind. The air was thick with the scent of something both new and ancient, something impossibly familiar yet completely unknowable.

And yet, despite all of it, it was utterly, painfully mundane.

No looming figures. No creatures watching from the edges. No divine presence looming above them.

Just… plants. Wind. The quiet stretch of an unbroken landscape, stretching for miles.
 
Wrath glared out at the endless expanse of flowers, his breath sharp, ragged. Where was the Augur? Where was the presence that should be here? He had come to end it, to tear it apart, to finish them. But there was nothing. No challenge. No walls to break. No weight pressing against him.

His ear twitched, his head jerking sharply to the side. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, testing the air, searching for the scent of something wrong, something that didn’t belong. But all he found was that same, infuriating stillness. That same soft, floral haze thick in his lungs.

His lip curled back.

"Get out already. Stop hiding!"

The words ripped from him, sharp, jagged, his voice carrying through the garden like a snarl of thunder. His rage was an open wound, pulsing, raw, seething like a beast caged in something too delicate to withstand it.

Wrath turned, scanning, movements jerky, restless, like a predator on the verge of lunging. His body was locked, ready, every muscle primed to strike the second the Augur revealed itself. His shadow stretched unnaturally, rippling against the soft glow of the plants, shifting like it might reach for something unseen.

But nothing came.

No figure emerging from the trees. No unseen force rising to meet him. No challenge, no war, no enemy to strike down.

The Augur did not come to meet him.

And that only made his rage burn hotter.
 
Ephraim watched him carefully. Not Mordecai—Wrath. The way he moved, the way his breath came sharp and shallow, the way his presence pressed against the stillness of this place like a wildfire looking for something to burn.

This wasn’t just frustration. This was something deeper.

Mordecai would have noticed by now. He would have seen the absence of a challenge for what it was, taken it apart, examined it, understood. But Wrath? Wrath was thrashing against nothing, demanding a fight where there was none.

And that told her everything.

She stepped forward, slow, deliberate, the petals beneath her feet barely stirring.

“You’re waiting for something,” she murmured, tilting her head slightly. Her voice wasn’t teasing this time. It wasn’t light or dismissive. It was steady. Certain. “But it’s not here, is it?”
 
Wrath’s gaze snapped toward her, a flicker of something dangerous behind those crimson eyes. She wasn’t scared. Not even a little. That infuriating calm, that casual confidence—it clawed under his skin like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

"You’re just walking around here like you belong," he snarled, voice dripping with contempt. "Like everything just bends around you, like it owes you something. It’s pathetic."

His fists clenched tight, shadows twitching at the edges of Mordecai’s form, as if they wanted to lash out, to do something, anything, to make her react. But she didn’t.

"Always so sure of yourself, huh?" he spat, eyes narrowing. "You think you’re untouchable? Think because this place hasn’t swallowed you up yet, you’re safe?"

He took a step closer, the air around him thickening, growing colder, sharper. His teeth bared in a snarl.

"And what, you think you know him?" His lip curled referencing Mordecai. "You think just because you’ve spent a little time around him, you understand what’s clawing under his skin? What’s been sinking into his bones since the day he was marked?"

His voice dropped, low and venomous.

"You don’t. He’s mine. You can stand there and play wise all you want, but at the end of the day, he carries me. He burns with me."

His breath came harsh, almost a growl rumbling in his throat. He hated the way she looked at him, like she saw right through him. Like she saw something beyond the fury, beyond the chaos. And worse—she wasn’t afraid.

"Well," he hissed, turning away sharply. "If you’re smart, you’ll stop pretending like you’re above all this."
 
Ephraim let his words settle, let the weight of his anger press down, let the venom drip from his voice like it was meant to wound. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t scowl. She didn’t even frown.

Instead, she exhaled slowly, tilting her head, studying him the way one might study a storm rolling in from the horizon—not with fear, but with inevitability.

“You really think you’re the only thing that’s ever clawed under someone’s skin?”

Her gaze flickered across him, the way his fists stayed clenched, the way his body bristled with rage that had nowhere to go.

“You call him yours like that’s something to be proud of,” she continued, tone light but sharp beneath it. “Like you’re the one carrying him.” She took a step closer, the glow of the flowers catching in her eyes. “But let’s be real. You’re trapped. You don’t own him,” she said simply. “You need him. You throw a tantrum when he resists, when he doesn’t bend, because you’re terrified of what happens if he ever lets go of you, aren’t you? Because where do you go then?"
 
Wrath’s body went rigid, the muscles in Mordecai’s jaw clenching so hard it looked like his teeth might crack.

His breath came sharp through his nose, and for a second, just a second, the shadows at his feet pulsed—like they might lunge, like they might tear something apart just to make her flinch. But she didn’t. She just stood there, watching him, talking like she had him figured out. Like she saw something beyond the rage, beyond the fire, beyond him.

It made his skin crawl.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his nails digging into Mordecai’s palms, hard enough to hurt.

"You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?" His voice was quiet now, but the anger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. "You stand there, acting like you understand something, like you see something—"

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, nostrils flaring like a cornered animal. He could feel the weight of her gaze on him, steady, unwavering. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t condescension. It was worse.

It was knowing.

His hands flexed again, but this time, he didn’t lash out. He didn’t snarl. He didn’t give her the satisfaction.

Instead, he turned sharply on his heel, shoulders stiff, steps clipped as he strode forward.

"Come on," he spat over his shoulder. "If you’re done running your mouth, I have something to find unless you're just going to stand there and twirl your hair."

But even as he walked, something in the set of his jaw, in the stiffness of his movements, in the way his shadows curled just a little tighter, a little closer, made one thing clear.

She had gotten to him.
 

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