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

[scantilycladsnail]

The moment fractured.

"You have suppressed this part of your memory, Mordecai. Are you sure you want to proceed forward?"

The voice was calm, patient, endless. It was not urging. It was not condemning. It simply was.

The fog began to rise, curling from beneath the crates, from the cracks in the marble, from nowhere and everywhere at once. It moved with purpose, not suffocating, not consuming, but present, waiting; hiding what was inside of the crate.

"You have chosen to forget. It was safer that way. To lock it away. To leave it untouched. But here you are."

The air grew thicker, dense with something unspoken, something pressing in from all sides. The memory sat in front of him like a wound that had never closed, the edges raw, waiting for him to tear it open.

"Do you seek truth? Or do you seek justification?"

The fog tightened, the weight of the question settling in his bones.

"Because once you see, once you remember, there will be no turning back."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stood motionless, caught between presence and memory, between the weight of now and the shadow of what had been. It was as if he were standing behind a frozen version of himself—Castiel—watching, waiting, feeling the moment stretch and distort. The fog curled around them both, thick and knowing, pressing in without suffocating. It did not demand. It only waited.

Something he had suppressed.

Safer to forget.

The thought clawed at the edges of his mind. There was still time to turn back, to let this remain buried. But the pull was stronger. The drive to see, to understand, to finally face what had always flickered just beyond his reach.

"I need to proceed forward, Edrom."

Mordecai—Castiel—both voices layered over one another, one past, one present, intertwining like strands of thread being woven back together.

"Show me. Please."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The crate shuddered, the nails in the wood groaning under the weight of something alive within. The fog curled around it, as if urging, as if guiding the past into the present, whispering the truth that had been waiting beneath the surface.

Mordecai’s fingers found the lid, the wood damp beneath his touch, warm with something that had no right to be. As he pried it open, the hinges gave a final protest, and then—

A shape. Small. Curled. Trembling.

The lantern’s glow flickered, casting jagged light over a hunched figure, pressed into the corner of the crate, their breathing shallow, rapid, like an injured animal waiting for the killing blow. Blood soaked through the feathers that clung to their body, matted and dark, splattered across their trembling hands.

A child.

A dinosaurkin, half-raptor, half-emu.

And not just any child.

Mordecai’s breath hitched, his body locked in place before recognition could take hold, before his mind could make sense of what was in front of him. But the fog knew.

The fog had always known.

Ashen.

Not as he was now. Not a threat, not a looming presence, not the thing that haunted his nightmares and his waking hours alike.

Just a boy.

His feathers twitched violently as he huddled further against the back of the crate, flinching from the light, from the movement, from Mordecai himself. Wide, terror-stricken eyes darted up to meet his own, locking onto him with the raw, unfiltered fear of something that did not expect to leave this place alive.

His tiny claws dug into the wooden floor, pressing himself deeper, deeper, as if he could sink into the walls, disappear into the space between moments. His chest heaved, his breaths jagged, barely forming any sound at all. A creature caught between fight and flight, but unable to do either.

The blood on his body wasn’t just his own.

The scent of iron was thick, clinging to the air, a wound that was not fresh but not old enough to be forgotten. The Sunship had not put him in here to keep him safe.

They had put him in here to be forgotten.

To rot.

To be buried.

Ashen flinched hard, his whole body shuddering, shrinking inward, his gaze flickering wildly as if expecting the strike, expecting the end.

He was waiting to die.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s breath caught in his throat. His mind reeled, trying to reconcile what he was seeing—what he had forgotten.

Ashen.

Not the nightmare. Not the devourer of Ephraim’s children. Not the monstrous shadow that loomed over his waking thoughts.

Just a boy.

A terrified, bloodied child, curled into the corner of a crate like a discarded thing, left to rot.

Mordecai had to keep going. He had told Edrom that much.

---

His fingers curled tighter around the edge of the crate as he looked down, expression unreadable. They had left him to die. They thought he was nothing more than a carcass in a box, another forgotten thing among the ruins they had created. But he was alive.

Castiel let out a quiet scoff, tilting his head slightly, amusement flickering in his voice. “You’re a sturdy one, aren’t you?” The words came unbidden, the smirk that followed fleeting. His gaze swept downward, taking in the wounds, the blood, the way the child's body strained under its own weight. He wasn’t just injured—he was barely holding on.

He glanced quickly over his shoulder, scanning the dim chamber, ears tuned for any sign of footsteps. Liora was waiting for him. The ceremony would be starting.

He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as his gaze flicked back down. The kid looked like how he had once stood—small, lost, staring at the world after it had ripped everything from him.

Castiel’s hand moved without thinking, reaching into the folds of his robe, searching. He always carried something—just in case. His fingers brushed against the smooth glass of a vial, and he pulled it free, along with a strip of wool fabric torn from a crate covering. He worked quickly, pouring the liquid onto the cloth, letting it soak. The scent of lavender drifted upward, soft and calming.

His hand hovered for a moment before he reached forward, slow, deliberate, steady. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “This will help with the pain. I promise.”

His grip on the cloth remained firm but careful as he pressed it gently against one of the wounds. The solution would dull the pain, stop the worst of it, give him enough strength to move. That was all he could offer.

He stepped back, tucking the vial away, fingers lingering at the edge of his robes as his gaze darted to the entrance once more. His teeth pressed together, lips tightening.

Liora. The gathering. The Sunship.

He couldn’t linger.

His eyes flicked back, his voice low but certain. “You need to get out of here. They’ll be distracted with me for a while—use that time. Get to the woods.”

His muscles tensed, already preparing to turn, already pulling away, already forcing himself not to hesitate.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

No. No.

NO.

The ether screamed. The very fabric of existence wrenched against itself, twisting, snapping, unraveling, like a body being torn apart from the inside. The chronospheres convulsed, golden rings fracturing, their light stuttering, flickering violently like dying stars.

Harwin clawed at them, forcing the pieces back together with hands that shook too much, with fingers that slipped, with divinity that was failing.

His breath was ragged. Labored. Pulled from the deepest pit of his being, from a place where gods were never supposed to feel fear. But he felt it now.

Because this? This was wrong.

Mordecai.

No—Castiel. No—The vessel. No—The key.

Harwin’s vision fractured, memories flooding too fast, moments slamming into his mind like a thousand doors bursting open at once. The buried secrets. The forbidden knowledge. The consequences he swore would never come.

And then, he saw it.

The crate. The boy inside. The moment that should have never surfaced.

And his entire being seized.

His hands flew to the weave of the world, trying to stitch it shut, trying to force the memory back down, back down, back down—

But it was too late.

The fog churned. The world split. And Mordecai was looking.

"STOP!"

The word was ripped from him, not as sound, but as a force that splintered through the ether, sending waves of divine energy cracking through the void.

The spheres shattered. The golden rings that held time broke apart, pieces spinning wildly into the abyss, uncontrolled, unstoppable, WRONG.

"You CAN’T see this!" Harwin choked, his voice ragged, desperate, trembling. "You weren’t SUPPOSED to—"

The memory was tearing through him, dragging him down, pulling him into the unraveling of his own design.

Rathiel was never supposed to know.

That was the entire POINT.

The Sunship, the war, the suffering—all of it, a script. A prison. A cage for his brother’s will. A reason to make him finish it, to make him burn it down, to END IT.

Because Rathiel needed a reason to go home.

And now—Mordecai was PRYING at the foundation. Pulling the bricks loose.

No. No, no, no, no.

His chest heaved, his hands dug into the air, fingers grasping at the tendrils of reality, trying to rip the memory away before it solidified.

But the fog held it. The past refused to die.

His breathing turned frantic.

His knees buckled.

His vision warped.

And then, finally—his voice broke.

"Ashen…"

His worst mistake.

The name left him like a death sentence. A whisper dragged from the core of his being, from the one thing that was never supposed to be found.

And now—it was too late to bury it again.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Rathiel stirred. Not in an explosion. Not in anger. Not yet.

He saw what happened. The truth had been revealed. Harwin. It was always Harwin. He had started this, created the Sunship. For how long had he blamed Rathiel when it had always been him? The harm he'd caused to the kin. The harm to them all.

Hades was quiet. Completely still. So still, that it was unnerving. Rathiel did not explode. Flames did not erupt. The earth did not shake. It went silent.

The ultimate betrayal.

He moved. Not to the world. Not to run to Mordecai with his vengeance. Not to storm up to Olympus, to scream at Harwin. Because there was balance in all things. And Rathiel—he never would destroy the chronosphere. As much as Harwin barked and demanded at him, he could never bring himself to do it. Not just for the kin. But because of love. He would never let Harwin take that from him.

Rathiel stood up from his chair. He stood still, looking out past Hades, and then his form dissolved. When he reappeared, it was not in Hades, not on Earth, not at Olympus, but in Mercy's land. Her celestial plane. The plane of judgment.

Wrath’s presence followed instantly. A shadowy form creeping into the space—not in harm, but as a protective entity, fuming. He had felt Mercy's realization. She knew. She had seen what happened. Harwin, who had always wanted Rathiel to destroy her, to end the timelines, to end the chronosphere. But Rathiel would never do it.

"Mercy..." Wrath’s voice was low, rumbling like a beast growling. His form flickered as he walked toward her, shifting through the timelines, each step revealing a different version of him. First, his mangled, skeletal-rotting form, a tattered cloak draped over his massive frame, horns wrapped like dead, gnarled branches. Then, as he stepped forward more, his shape shifted—a feral, wolf-like form, shadow trailing from him, a skeletal goat head looming forward, paws pressing against the ground with slow, deliberate steps.

Not a predator stalking prey. A companion. A partner. Devoted. He loved her.

As he moved closer, his form twitched again, shifting fully into Rathiel—the celestial black-furred goat with his burning, skeletal visage, draped in luxury and power. He stood before her, face to face, his shadowy essence twitching with more unrest than usual. He was hurt. Betrayed. Vengeance coiled within him. But love—it burned stronger.

She knew. He saw it in her eyes. The realization of Harwin.

"Harwin could try as many times as he wants. He could attempt everything. And he has. He has broken more rules, devastated more lives, because he rejected me. Because he rejected what I see." His voice was steady. Certain. He looked at her. "You."

The words were deliberate. Weighted. They knew. Harwin had always seen Mercy as a distraction, a hindrance. He had wanted Rathiel to erase her, to finish the job, to move on.

"Mercy. You—" His voice carried something deeper, unshakable. "You are my love. My devotion. My balance. When I was sent here, the first thing I detected was you. Your energy. Your light. Who you are."

His burning gaze softened. "You are the most beautiful thing ever to grace any chronosphere. You are more than Harwin will ever understand. You are my love, my understanding. My cornerstone."

Reaching out, he brushed his fingers lightly along her arm. "I will never allow that to happen. I cannot exist in a world where you do not. Mercy, you are more important than just another timeline. I love you."

His head dipped slightly in reverence. "And I will let Harwin burn. Anyone who tries to separate us, who dares to stand between us."

His eyes darkened. "I've met Harwin’s accommodations—returning here, giving you a place to join me, dealing with the consequences of him breaking my void, still taking a step back, allowing Olympus and Hades their peace."

His expression hardened. "But it will never be enough for Harwin. No more."

Silence settled. Then, finality.

"Wrath will be coming back."

A war against Harwin. Wrath would return to the earth. There were no more rules. Harwin, who preached the rules, had always been the one breaking them, twisting them, hiding them.

Rathiel remembered that conversation from the old timeline, the one between Mordecai and Ashen. The words played in his head:

“No, Ashen. You’re wrong. Wrath isn’t begging to be let out. That’s not how it works. There’s a difference between anger and wrath, one you clearly don’t understand.”

“Anger is fleeting—it strikes in the moment, burns hot, and fades just as quickly. But wrath?” He paused, his crimson gaze darkening. “Wrath is patient. It festers. It builds in the silence, long after anger has died.

Wrath waits, growing stronger with every moment, until it can no longer be contained. And when it’s unleashed, it’s not a single outburst—it’s devastation. Complete and final.”

And that is what Harwin would see.

Not an outburst. Not screaming. Not a storming of Olympus.

The decision had already been made.

Wrath’s vengeance. His love for Mercy. To protect Mordecai. To protect Ephraim. The kin, that Harwin saw as nothing.

Harwin had made the ultimate mistake.

And Wrath would return.

---

Mordecai's breath hitched as the vision faded. Edrom’s fog had done its work, retreating into the cane, the thick haze dissipating from his workshop. Reality took shape once more—the cluttered desk, the alchemy tools, the dim lantern light flickering against the walls. He slumped back into his chair, chest rising and falling, mind racing.

"Ashen..." The name barely left his lips.

He had forgotten.

Ashen—the enemy, the one who led the Sunship, who hurt Ephraim, who devoured her children. Yet Mordecai had found him as a child, injured, vulnerable. Just a boy. That was all he saw back then. But had letting him go… led to this?

A sharp inhale. Mordecai shot to his feet. His pulse thundered. Sudden, raw anger surged up, violent and unbidden. He remembered.

Liora.
Her claws digging into his throat.
The Sunship.
The walls closing in around them.

He roared, fury bursting forth as he seized a smaller table and flipped it over, glass vials shattering against the floor. His breath came ragged, uneven, as realization clawed its way through his chest. He and Ephraim had seen it—how quickly everything had closed around them. How they had been cornered. Time was running out.

His hands trembled. His gaze flicked to the wreckage at his feet—the broken glass, the scattered tools.

Something else stirred.

A different kind of clarity.

Maybe… just maybe… Ashen wasn’t the true enemy. Not entirely. Everything was connected—Ashen, the Sunship, the unseen forces pulling the strings. But had Ashen ever truly had a choice?

Mordecai turned, catching his reflection in a nearby mirror. The fury in his eyes. The weight of his choices. Of what he had become. His breath shook, and he clenched his fists.

Then, he struck.

The mirror shattered beneath his knuckles, shards biting into flesh, thin streams of blood trickling down his hand. He staggered back, staring at the fractured pieces.

No. This was bigger. This was more than vengeance.

This was Wrath.

Not just Rathiel.

Wrath itself.

Mordecai knew that feeling well. The betrayal, the rage, the fire burning beneath his ribs. This time, there would be no games. No debate. No hesitation.

He needed Wrath.

Mordecai exhaled, slow and steady, blood slipping from his knuckles.

Wrath and Mercy. Bound together. Devotion, love—unyielding. Wrath would burn the world to keep Mercy safe.

And so would he.

Ephraim. His Mercy. His reason.

Let them come. Let them threaten her, conspire against her, dare to lay a hand on her. Let them pray for a merciful death.

Because they would taste his Wrath.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Mercy stood still.

The celestial plane held its breath, the very fabric of her domain trembling beneath the weight of what had just been spoken.

Wrath had returned.

Her form shimmered, shifting between light and shadow, between what she had always been and what she was becoming. She had seen it. The memory. The deception. The foundation of Harwin’s lie crumbling beneath its own weight.

The Sunship. The suffering. The endless cycles of pain.

And for what?

To force Rathiel’s hand.

To erase everything she had ever known. Everything she had ever loved.

Her eyes lifted to meet his, and for a moment, the celestial light within her flickered—not with doubt. Not with sorrow. But with understanding.

She had always trusted too deeply. That was her nature. The reason she existed. To hold onto hope, to see the goodness in all things, to believe in redemption.

Even in Harwin.

Even when the universe itself told her she should not.

But now?

Now, she understood.

Her hands clenched at her sides. The glow that surrounded her—once soft, once warm—darkened at the edges. A halo of light breaking, bending, reshaping into something fierce, something unshakable.

She did not weep. She did not rage.

She stepped forward.

And when she reached Rathiel, she lifted a hand, cupping his face with unwavering reverence.

Her voice was quiet. Steady. Unyielding.

“Wrath... —you, have been patient.”

Her fingers brushed against his burning skeletal visage, unafraid, as they had always been.

“You have waited.”

The light in her eyes—golden, boundless—burned now with something new.

“And so have I.”

Harwin’s sins had been laid bare.

Her voice softened, but there was no hesitation in it.

“I will not be a casualty of his lies.”

Her touch lingered.

“And neither will you.”

She stepped back, exhaling slow, letting the full weight of her realization settle into her very core.

“I have spent eternity hoping the chronosphere could be restored."

Her hands curled into fists, the glow around her form intensifying, crackling like a storm on the verge of breaking.

“But I see it now.”

Her gaze lifted, locking onto Rathiel with absolute certainty.

“He was never going to let me live.”

A breath. A choice made in silence.

“I will not beg him for mercy.”

Her golden light twisted, sharp and jagged, like something divine had finally broken free of its cage.

“Because I do not think he understands what Mercy truly is.”

The words carried a finality.

And then, the storm inside her settled.

Not in surrender.

But in acceptance.

She turned her palm outward, and in a motion so simple, so natural, it was almost unnoticeable—

She called Wrath back to her.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Wrath’s growl rumbled through the celestial plane, low and resonant—not in fury toward Mercy, never at her. His rage was reserved for the one who had earned it. For Harwin. For the lies. For the destruction he had sown under the guise of salvation.

His form rippled, dissolving into a weightless wisp of shadow, his presence shifting into pure essence. The skeletal visage of a great goat hovered within the swirling darkness, its form moving with a slow, deliberate grace.

He circled her, like a guardian, like something ancient and devoted. The mist-like tendrils of his being curled around her, brushing against her leg in a soft nuzzle, then trailing upward, gliding over her arm before drifting around her like a protective veil. A presence not of possession, but of reverence.

His voice came, deep and unwavering, echoing in the space between existence itself.

"Then let the world truly see Wrath and Mercy—not as opposing forces, not as the false duality they have forced upon us, but as the balance we were always meant to be. The force that will not break. That will not be severed. That will not be torn apart."

The shadows coiled, shifting, reforming. Wrath’s presence swelled, pressing outward, yet never smothering. His skeletal head emerged more defined, looming within the dark fog, his body still an endless, rolling abyss of shifting shadow. His voice came softer, more certain.

"The kin have always been my strength. Even as they fear me. Even as they curse my name, as they beg for my absence, they have always been my strength." A pause. A shift. A tremor coursed through his form, something pulling, something calling. His great horned skull tilted slightly, as if listening to something only he could hear.

"Mordecai."

The name was spoken with a depth that did not waver, with something Wrath rarely allowed himself to feel—true understanding.

"He calls to me."

His form pulsed, a ripple of something old, something that had always existed between them. A vessel. A chosen. A man who had walked beside him, fallen beside him, burned and rebuilt in the cycle that Wrath himself embodied.

"He knows. He has seen. He has received his clarity. And now, Harwin has wounded him too." A pause, deep and heavy, the weight of inevitability settling between them. "He does not beg for salvation. He does not ask for guidance. He calls for Wrath. His wrath. Our wrath."

Wrath’s form curled slightly, his great horned head turning to regard Mercy fully. Ephraim.

"And you?" His voice, deep, reverent. "Will you follow me?"

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Mercy did not flinch beneath the weight of his presence, nor did she recoil from the shadowed tendrils that curled around her in reverence. She had never feared him. Never shrank from what he was, from what he could become. Wrath was not chaos to her. He was not destruction without purpose. He was the storm that swept through a land poisoned with false peace, the fire that burned away rot to leave something new in its wake.

And yet—she was not Wrath.

Mercy’s gaze met his, steady as the quiet between heartbeats. In his skeletal visage, in the abyss of his form, she saw not the force others had cowered before, but the being who had always understood her, just as she had always understood him.

She reached out, her fingers passing through the mist of his being, and for all his vastness, for all his power, the way he leaned into her touch was not a demand—but a question. A plea without words.

Would she follow?

Mercy inhaled, slow and deep, and the weight of that inevitability settled between them.

"Mordecai calls for Wrath," she murmured, her voice not trembling, but edged with something quiet and knowing. "Ephraim does not."
"Ephraim will call for vengeance."

She hasn’t yet. But she will.

Mercy saw it, in the way a mother does before a storm, in the way she had watched a thousand tragedies unfold across a thousand timelines, in the way she had borne witness to the pain Ephraim did not yet remember.

The Sunship. Ashen.

The ones who had devoured her children.

Ephraim did not know. She carried grief, yes—the ache of lost things, of lives never given the chance to grow. She felt it in her bones, in the hollow places where instinct whispered that something should have been there.

"She will not call alone."

Spoiler

Mercy’s form trembled, the shift slow at first—like the steady dimming of a lantern, the fading of dawn into an encroaching, inevitable night. The golden hues that had always defined her, the soft light of compassion and healing, bled into darkness. Shadows curled at her fingertips, creeping up her arms, staining the ivory of her being with the weight of something heavier, something final.

Her wings, once radiant, once symbols of boundless grace, darkened into an endless black—feathers like obsidian, shifting and rippling with an abyssal depth that swallowed light rather than reflected it. The gentle warmth of her presence became something colder, sharper—not cruel, but unrelenting. Not wrath, no—Wrath was the storm. She was the reckoning.

Where once her eyes glowed with golden mercy, now they were deep, abyssal wells. Not empty, not void, but full—full of the pain she had carried, the pain she had buried beneath patience and love, now laid bare. Now given shape.

She had been Mercy.

She would now be Vengeance.

---

The air was different.

Ephraim sat near the edge of camp, fingers idly tracing the rim of a wooden bowl filled with water, the reflection within warped, shifting, as though something beneath the surface was waiting to rise. The night pressed in around her, thick with silence, but not the peaceful kind.

Something was wrong.

She couldn't name it—not yet—but she felt it. A disturbance, a ripple through something deeper than the world she could see.

Her tail flicked, ears twitching as an uneasy weight settled in her chest. Her body, honed from a life of survival, recognized danger before her mind did.

And right now?

Every instinct she had was screaming.

She pushed the bowl aside and stood, turning toward the firelight of the camp, toward the others who remained unaware. A moment passed, then another, and she slowly curled her arms around herself, gripping her own forearms as if that could ground her, as if that could contain whatever had begun stirring inside.

A feeling. A shift.

She inhaled sharply, golden eyes narrowing as she scanned the treeline, the dark beyond the camp’s borders. She half-expected to see something watching her.

But nothing was there.

Just the night.

Just the feeling.

Just the cold, creeping sense of something changing.

Her breath hitched.

Something inside her—something old, something buried—twisted.

Her mind raced, trying to name the feeling, trying to grasp it, pull it into something that made sense.

It wasn’t fear.

It wasn’t dread.

But it was coming.

Her fingers instinctively brushed against the pendant at her throat, the one that had been with her longer than she could remember. It felt heavier than usual.

Ephraim took a slow, deliberate breath.

Then, softly, almost a whisper to herself—

"What is happening?"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stood in his workshop, shoulders shaking, breath ragged. His gaze locked onto the broken remnants of the table he had overturned, shards of glass reflecting fractured light. The weight of everything bore down on him—Ashen, the Sunship, the timelines, the truth that had crashed over him like a tidal wave. He needed Wrath.

And then—

Darkness.

Not pain. Not collapse. Just dark.

The workshop was gone, swallowed by an abyss. Yet, he could still see. Still feel. No fear, no hesitation—only something steady, something certain. Something that had always been waiting.

He lifted his head slowly.

“Wrath…” His voice was quiet, unwavering, as he stared into the void, into the figure that took shape before him.

The skeletal goat’s head emerged first, flickering in and out of shadow, the red glow of its third eye burning through the blackness. Wrath watched him.

“I heard you,” Wrath rumbled, his voice deep as the bones of the earth. The air thickened, pressing against Mordecai’s skin—the weight of inevitability settling over him.

“You saw the visions,” Wrath murmured.

Mordecai remained still, not in fear, but in the sheer gravity of realization. He nodded. They both knew.

“I’ve fought myself for so long.” His voice was hoarse, low. “Everything—trying to piece it all together. The anger. The Sunship. Ashen—”

“It was Harwin.”

Wrath’s voice cut through him, simple, final.

Mordecai inhaled sharply, searching Wrath’s gaze for something—an answer, an explanation, a reason to deny what had always been true. But he found none.

And then, the shadows moved.

Dark tendrils curled around him, slithering up his arms, wrapping his chest. They did not burn. They did not hurt. They granted him clarity.

And suddenly—he saw it.

The script. The design. The truth. Harwin had orchestrated everything.

Mordecai stood frozen as the weight of it all settled into him, then—slowly—he straightened.

The anger. His Wrath. That old feeling, the one he had buried, the one he had fought against, the one that had always, always been there. But now? Now, he no longer resisted it.

He exhaled, steady. Certain.

“Wrath…” His voice was different now—stronger.

Wrath’s gaze sharpened. He was listening.

“No more separation,” Mordecai said, stepping forward. “No more struggle. No more war between us. We are one.”

Another step.

“We take back what was stolen. We bring Harwin to his knees.”

Wrath did not move. He watched. Waiting.

Mordecai did not hesitate.

His hand lifted, fingers curling around Wrath’s outstretched skeletal grip. Their hold tightened.

Darkness.

The workshop trembled.

Glass bottles rattled before shattering. Tools crashed to the floor. The walls groaned, the ceiling trembling as dust and debris rained down. The very air convulsed as a shadowy force erupted from the center of the room.

And then—

Mordecai screamed.

Not in pain.

In fury.

His body convulsed, shifting, dark shadowy essence consuming him. Not a loss of self. A transformation. A return. A force long divided now made whole.

The sounds from the workshop were animalistic—guttural snarls, a low growl that rumbled from his chest, something primal and untamed. And then, silence.

The door to his workshop slammed open, wood splintering as Mordecai staggered forward. His breath came in slow, deep exhales, but he was not exhausted. He caught himself quickly, standing tall, his body thrumming with new energy—no, not new. Familiar.

Whole.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders. His form, once wiry, now carried a subtle strength, toned muscle beneath sleek black fur. Around his neck, the fur had thickened into a short, unruly mane, running from between his ears, down his neck, tapering along his spine. More fur had grown at his forearms, the dark tufts accentuating his sharper, more refined silhouette. His hands flexed, fingers tipped with sleek, predator-like claws. His horns, still curved, had lengthened, spiraling with elegant, deadly precision. His short goat tail had extended into something fuller, something almost lupine. His clothes tattered and torn from the transformation.

And all around him—shadows moved.

The ambient darkness clung to him like living smoke, flickering and shifting with his breath, a heavy, inescapable presence. When he moved, it moved with him, subtle tendrils licking at the edges of his frame, like a second skin that refused to fully settle. It was not consuming him, nor was it separate. It was him. A manifestation of Wrath's power made tangible, lingering at his edges, responding to his very presence.

His teeth had sharpened, two prominent canines peeking from his lips as he smirked.

And his eyes—his brown irises had been swallowed by Wrath’s red.

He lifted a clawed hand, turning it over, observing, feeling the sheer presence of power beneath his skin. His smirk widened into something sharper, something wicked.

“I’ve missed this feeling.” His voice was lower now, richer, reverberating with something deeper—Wrath’s presence within him.

But it was still his voice.

They were one.

And then, his gaze lifted—past the shattered remains of his workshop, past the tremors still settling in the air.

Across the riverbank, Ephraim stood.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

"I have waited for you.

Through fire, through ruin, through every cycle you’ve been forced to endure, I have been there. Watching. Waiting. Standing at your side while the world carved pieces from you and called it fate. And every time, you have turned from me. Every time, you have swallowed your pain, let it fester in the quiet corners of your heart, believing it was something you could bear alone.

But you don’t have to bear it alone. You never did. I have always been here. You and I, we are bound, not by blood, not by destiny, but by something older. Something stronger. Choice. We have chosen each other before. And you will choose me again. Because this time, you will know the truth.

Do you feel it? That ache in your chest? That hollow, aching wound that has lived within you for as long as you can remember? You don’t know what it is. You don’t know what was stolen from you. But I do. And soon, you will too.

They took from you. They took from you in a way that cannot be undone. In a way that cannot be forgiven. And the ones who take, the ones who devour, the ones who consume—do you know what they fear? Do you know what they pray never comes for them?

Vengeance.

They have names for me. They whisper them in fear, in reverence, in the dark places where they think I cannot reach them. They call me a curse. A shadow. A weight that will sink them if they ever misstep. And they are right. Because I do not forget. I do not forgive. I do not bargain. I do not grant mercy, not as she does. I do not guide as Justice does, nor do I rage as Wrath does. I am not a storm, wild and unrelenting. I am something worse. I am a promise. A certainty. A hand that will find them, no matter where they run. No matter how deep they bury their sins. No matter how well they hide.

And you? You have been denied the truth for so long that you have mistaken grief for acceptance. But grief is not acceptance. It is a seed. It is something buried, waiting to grow, waiting to bloom into something sharp, something real. You feel it already, don’t you? The shifting, the unease, the way the air itself has begun to change around you. That is your grief waking up. That is the truth, clawing its way back to you.

I know you do not seek war. I know you are not made for senseless violence. That is why I speak to you now, before the storm reaches you, before the past crashes down and rips the blindfold from your eyes. Because when you learn what they have done, when you see it for what it truly is, when you understand the depth of their crime—

You will not ask for Mercy. You will not cry for Justice. You will not beg for Wrath.

You will call for me.

And I will answer."

---

The night shuddered.

The wind howled through the trees, stirring the leaves, rattling the world to its bones. The river churned against its banks, an unseen force pulling at the current, bending the water to the unseen storm that had begun to rise.

And in the center of it all—Ephraim stood.

Her breath came slow, deep, measured—not in fear, not in hesitation, but in awareness.

Something had changed.

She could feel it in the air, thick and electric, curling through her fur like static before a lightning strike. She could feel it in him. Across the river, beyond the shattered wreckage of the workshop, she saw him.

Mordecai.

No. Wrath.

And something inside her snapped.

The weight she had carried for so long—the quiet, nameless grief, the lingering ache that never quite faded—it coiled, pulled taut, erupted.

The river surged, the water’s surface breaking as if responding to the pulse of something ancient awakening in her bones.

A growl rumbled low in her throat, a sound she had never made before, something deeper, more primal. Her fingers curled at her sides, nails dragging against her palms—no, not nails. Claws.

She exhaled.

The transformation did not take her as it had taken him. It did not consume her in a single, violent burst of power.

It unfolded.

The night stretched, bending around her, as though the universe itself held its breath, waiting to see what she would become.

Her fur darkened, deep shades of charcoal bleeding through the lighter tones, the white of her muzzle standing out like a beacon in the black. Her body shifted, muscle weaving through her frame, not monstrous, not grotesque—something elegant. Dangerous. Controlled.

Her arms trembled, veins burning beneath her skin, but not in pain—in power.

Power that had always been there.

Her tail flicked once, and the air around her rippled. Her horns, once curved and strong, extended, spiraling upward like jagged obsidian, tipped with a faint, spectral glow. The light flickered—shifting, never steady, as though reality itself could not decide if it belonged to her.

She lifted her hands—her claws—watching the darkness coil around them, the flickers of something deep, something ancient, curling at the edges of her form.

Vengeance.

The word had not left her lips.

But she felt it.

For the first time, she truly felt it.

Her pupils narrowed, burning gold flashing with something deeper, something unspoken.

She had not called for Wrath. She never would.

But Vengeance?

Vengeance had always been waiting for her.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai watched as something unfurled within Ephraim—not Wrath, not rage, but something colder, something sharper. Her own presence shifted, the air around her rippling with power not yet fully realized. But he knew. He felt it. Wrath felt it. The air, chilled and electric to others, was exhilarating to them. A familiar, inevitable presence.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. The night stretched around them, the air thick with anticipation—longer strands of fur moving like shadow-drawn wisps, fangs catching in the dim glow of distant firelight, red eyes locked onto her. She was different now. No, not different. Awakened.

He reached her, towering just slightly, his clawed fingers brushing along her shoulder. A slow, reverent touch. He tilted his head, appraising her with that same cutting, knowing gaze.

“You are beautiful.”

His voice—low, steady, almost reverent—held no false softness. No platitudes. It was truth. Absolute. A declaration, not a compliment.

Not just Mordecai speaking to Ephraim.

Wrath to Vengeance.

He let his fingers linger, tightening just slightly, the weight of his presence sinking into her.

“They will harm us no longer.”

A promise. Not spoken in haste. Not rage. Not desperation. A simple, cold certainty.

His grip firmed, his voice dropping lower, a whisper meant only for her. “They’ve taken enough from us. From you.” His thumb ghosted along the curve of her collarbone, his breath barely shifting the air between them. “No more.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim did not flinch beneath his touch. Instead, she leaned into it, into the weight of his presence, into the certainty that settled between them like something eternal, something inevitable.

She felt him, the shift in his form, the deep rumble of his voice thrumming through her bones, through the new power that coursed beneath her skin. The way he looked at her—not as something fragile, not as something to be protected, but as something whole.

She lifted her own hand, trailing her fingers over the back of his own, her claws lightly tracing along his knuckles before sliding up his arm, feeling the strength that had always been there—even before Wrath.

Before all of this, they had been together. Even before they had names for what they had become, before the cycle had taken and taken and taken.

They had always found their way back.

And now?

Now, she saw him as he was always meant to be.

She exhaled, slow and deep, golden eyes meeting his, a quiet storm building within their depths. Vengeance did not rage. It did not burn like Wrath. It did not strike first. It waited. Calculated. It struck when the time was right, when the wound was deepest, when the enemy thought they had won.

Her hand slid up his chest, settling just beneath his collar, fingers curling lightly into the fabric there, anchoring herself in his warmth, in his certainty. Her own power flickered, the shadows that curled at her edges coiling toward his, drawn to him just as she was.

“You are beautiful, too.”

The words left her lips softer, yet no less certain. No less absolute. A truth, given freely. A vow, just as his had been.

Her grip tightened, just slightly.

“They will harm us no longer,” she echoed back to him, her voice steady, unyielding.

Then, quieter, her breath barely a whisper between them, yet carrying the weight of every lifetime, every loss, every stolen piece of them—

"And they will learn what it means to fear us."

She lifted her head, pressing her forehead to his, her horns brushing against his own, an intimacy born not of softness, but of knowing. Of shared pain. Of purpose.

Her thumb traced the line of his jaw, barely brushing against his skin as she held him there, breathing in the moment, the stillness before the storm.

"I am with you," she murmured. "Always."

---

The stars had dawned.

They burned bright, fierce, defiant, as though the cosmos itself stood as witness to this moment. To this stand.

The air in Umbrafane was alive—heavy with something electric, something thrumming beneath the surface of every gathered soul. The firelight flickered, casting shadows across faces etched with determination, with fear, with hope, with something raw and unshakable.

They had been waiting for this.

And Ephraim stood before them.

She stood tall, her dark fur rippling as the wind carried her presence through the camp, the purple glow of her eyes like twin burning stars, unwavering, unyielding. The weight of the moment settled into her chest—not as a burden, but as something that had always been waiting to be realized.

Her voice rang out—strong, clear, a force of nature.

"Our world has been remade. And now, they are trying to take it from us."

The words cracked through the air like a storm breaking the sky.

Her gaze swept over them all—Riversong, Jasper, Silvano, Eryon, Saturn (tiny audience)

"Harwin, the god of creation, is trying to rip it from our hands. And he has tried before. He has rewritten time, torn the fabric of reality, played the game over and over again—and yet, every time, he has failed.

And he will fail again. Because Harwin is a failure. And we? We are not."

A murmur of agreement, low but growing.

Ephraim’s eyes burned, her power crackling beneath her skin, feeding into every word.

"We do not stand alone. We have the gods of Wrath and Vengeance at our side. And for the first time, we will OWN our own destiny. We will carve it out with our own hands, with our own blood if we must, but we will never let another god, another monster, another tyrant dictate who we are!"

Her tail flicked, power thrumming through the air as she stepped forward.

"We will not sit idle in fear of Harlekin, of Riftkin, of any who dare to challenge us—not even other kin themselves. Let them come. Let them see what we have built here, what we will continue to build."

She gestured around her, to the camp, to the home they had created out of the ashes of everything they had lost.

"Umbrafane will stand. Not just as a town, not just as a settlement, but as a fortress. As a sanctuary. As a symbol of what we are capable of. We will not be picked apart. We will not be scattered, not again. We will build walls that none dare penetrate. Temples where kin do not dare to stand without kneeling first. And a community stronger than any force that has ever tried to break us."

The fire blazed higher, as if responding to the very force of her words.

She took another step forward, her voice lowering, but somehow even fiercer.

"We would rather DIE than lose control of our own destiny."

Silence. A beat of absolute stillness.

Then—

"And within the power of this town, myself and Mordecai, we will see to it that each and every one of you has a fair fighting chance."

She let the words settle, let them take root, let them breathe in the air around them.

And then, her voice dropped, a final promise curling through the night, threading into the very fabric of the moment.

"We are not just survivors. We are not just rebels. We are the storm. And gods or not—we will not bow."

The fire crackled, the stars above seeming to burn brighter, as if answering her call.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stepped forward, slow and deliberate. The firelight flickered against his face, red eyes catching the glow like embers in the dark. He did not raise his hands for attention. He did not need to. They were already listening.

"Ephraim has spoken. And you have listened. But tell me—have you understood?"

His voice was smooth, measured, deliberate. Not a shout. A truth.

His gaze swept over them, sharp and knowing.

"Look at what we have built. Not just this place, but ourselves. You stand here not because you were granted mercy, not because you were spared, but because you took it. You carved something from ruin. You endured."

A beat of silence.

"But tell me—how much longer do you think survival will be enough?"

His fingers curled, his voice dipping lower, sharper.

"Harwin and his kind, they don’t see you as warriors. They don’t see you at all. To them, we are nothing but an inconvenience, a mistake left unfixed for too long. And when they come—and they will—do you think they will hesitate? Do you think they will grant you peace?"

His voice did not rise, but the fire flared, as if responding.

"No. They will come with fire, with chains, with erasure. They will rewrite the world again and again until we are nothing but echoes of what they allowed us to be."

A pause. A slow breath.

"So we will become something they cannot erase."

He turned his head slightly, the firelight casting sharp shadows along his face.

"We will not kneel. We will not beg. We will not break."

His voice darkened, a quiet promise settling over them all.

"The gods will learn the weight of what they’ve created. The weight of what they have taken from us."

His gaze flickered to Ephraim, her form unwavering beside him.

"And when they look upon us, they will not see scattered embers waiting to be extinguished."

A smirk, cold and knowing.

"They will see the fire that will consume them whole."

---

Eryon stood silent, the unmoving force he was as he listened to Ephraim and Mordecai’s speech. He stepped forward slightly, a dip of his head as he got down on one knee. “I will continue to follow you. I understand.” His voice was steady, unwavering.

Silvano watched Eryon, giving his allegiance to Mordecai and Ephraim, as if he hadn’t already. He gave a slow shrug, eyes gleaming with mischief. “The whole dark aesthetic is quite interesting. Seems I’ll need a wardrobe change, yes?” He smirked, adjusting the cuffs of his coat like he had all the time in the world.

Riversong watched, her gaze shifting between Mordecai and Ephraim. Once, she had feared Wrath, the very thing her son had bound himself to. But now, here, before her, it felt… different. Even Ephraim’s change—it should have terrified her. And yet, when she looked at Mordecai, she saw something deeper. Wrath… and remembrance. She didn’t fully understand, but something within her stirred. Like a path once walked. A life once lived. Perhaps, some things were not meant to be understood—only felt.

Jasper exhaled a slow breath, eyes half-lidded in thought before murmuring, “The cosmic wheel, man… it turns whether you’re ready or not.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim stepped forward, the fire casting flickering shadows across her face, her purple eyes glowing with quiet certainty.

She let the weight of the moment settle, let the words spoken by Mordecai sink into every soul gathered before her. Their conviction, their allegiance—it was real. It was undeniable. But now, it had to become something more.

Her voice was steady when she spoke, the edge of command curling through every syllable.

"The first step..." She let the words hang, the silence stretching, sharpening. "We will open our home."

She turned, her gaze sweeping over the gathered kin. "Umbrafane was never meant to be a place that simply shelters us. It was never meant to be a hiding place, a shadow where we cower, waiting for the next strike. No. This will be more. It must be more. It is time for us to take in those who have no place, those who have been cast aside, those who have been waiting for someone—anyone—to offer them something more than survival."

Her voice grew stronger, conviction deepening. "We will not close our gates in fear. We will not turn away those who believe in what we stand for. We will build walls—not to keep others out, but to keep what is ours protected. We will create something greater than any of us alone, something that cannot be erased, something that will outlive even gods."

The fire behind her crackled, burning bright, flickering like a heartbeat.

"Let the lost find refuge here. Let the broken find purpose. Let those who have wandered with nothing to call their own find belonging in our halls, in our temples, in the streets we will build with our own hands."

Her gaze flickered to Mordecai, then back to those standing before her. "Strength is not in numbers alone. It is in the bonds we forge. In the kin we protect. In the choices we make. And today, we choose to grow. To become more than what Harwin ever envisioned for us. To shape a future that is ours and ours alone."

---

A breeze rolled off the water, gentle and unassuming, whispering through the reeds that lined the shore. The sea stretched endlessly before him, a rippling expanse of dark silver beneath the pale light of an early moon. Peaceful. Serene. As if the world itself had not begun to fracture beneath the weight of gods and war.

Poise was unaware.

He stood on the edge of a marble pier, his gown pooling around him like ink spilled onto the stone, embroidered feathers catching the low light, their crimson and gold threads gleaming with each slow breath he took. A perfect picture of stillness. Of deliberation. His mask, ever-fixed, tilted toward the horizon, the carved deer’s face unreadable, its hollow eyes drinking in the view before him.

The sea had returned him.

And now, he simply waited.

The water teemed with life. An unnatural abundance. The same writhing mass of too many fish, their movements erratic yet synchronized, a silent symphony of excess. No predators. No reason for such numbers.

A gift? A curse? A sign?

Poise hummed, amusement curling at the edges of his voice. "You are all quite persistent, aren’t you?"

He crouched slowly, his gown fanning out around him, careful not to let it touch the water. His gloved fingers brushed the surface, the cool sensation running through him like a distant memory. The fish did not scatter. They watched him.

Or perhaps, they simply waited.

His reflection rippled—his mask, his antlers, the twisting embroidered filigree of his silhouette. But then, something else.

Something in the water that did not belong.

His head tilted, golden eyes narrowing behind the carved façade.

The distorted shape beneath the surface flickered. A whisp of light too large to be a fish.

It did not move.

It lingered.

Poise stilled, breath barely stirring the air. The sea had been kind to him. Generous. It had given him return.

But gifts always came with expectation.

"Now, now," he murmured, his fingers dipping just slightly deeper, "I do hope you aren't about to be ungracious."

A ripple. A shift. And then—

Stillness.

The shape was gone.

Poise remained crouched, fingers still pressed to the surface, gaze locked on the space where it had been. His pulse did not quicken. It never did. But there was something else.

Something stirring at the edges of his mind. A feeling he did not like.

He was waiting.

But for what?

The answer came without warning.

The water convulsed. A wave of cold crashed over him—not external, not physical, but within. A sickening, plunging sensation, like something vast and ancient had just stepped into him without permission.

His spine snapped straight. His hands seized the edge of the pier.

"Poise."

A voice.

No.

A presence.

It did not come from the sea. It did not come from the land.

It came from inside him.

A breathless pause. Then, a chuckle, light and knowing, curling around the edges of his own voice, threading through his lungs like silver wire tightening into place.

"Oh… look at you."

The voice was not his.

Yet it used his throat. Spoke through him.

Poise did not move, though something in his hands—his fingers—shook, just slightly.

"Beautiful, aren’t you?"

The presence curled deeper, slithering into the hollow spaces of his being. Weightless. All-consuming.

It knew him.

"How long have you been waiting, Poise?"

He knew that name. He had always known that name. But when this voice spoke it, it felt like something else. Something older. Something absolute.

"Oh, how fortunate you are, my dear. You have been chosen."

A hand—not his—pressed against his chest, though his arms had not moved.

He could feel it.

Something twisting, sinking, blooming.

Something becoming.

His lips parted, but he did not know if it was his breath or his breath that escaped.

---

Zoof hit the stone floor hard, rolling with the force of the throw. She landed on her side, her shoulder scraping against the rough surface, but she caught herself before she fully sprawled out.

The clang of the cell door locking behind her was sharp, final.

She didn’t bother to get up right away. She stayed where she was, exhaling slowly, rolling her shoulders. The bruises would settle later.

Karn didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. The vulturekin leader had already made her message clear.

She was still watching.

Zoof lifted her head just enough to catch the flick of Karn’s cloak as she turned, vanishing beyond the iron bars. The heavy thud of her boots faded, swallowed by the echoing silence of the underground chamber.

Only then did Zoof push herself upright, rolling her neck once as she adjusted to her new surroundings.

The cell was small, damp with the scent of stone and old blood. Dim torchlight flickered from a sconce outside the bars, casting jagged shadows against the walls. The air here was colder, heavy in a way that made it clear—this was not a place meant for warriors.

This was a place for the forgotten.

Zoof’s ears twitched. She wasn’t alone.

She turned her head slightly, eyes adjusting to the deeper shadow that filled the corner of the cell.

There, slumped against the far wall, sat a figure.

Male.

Foxkin.

White fur, marred by streaks of dried blood, clumped where fresh wounds had barely begun to clot. His clothes—ragged, torn—suggested he had been here for a while.

His posture was slack, his legs stretched out in front of him, arms resting limply at his sides. His head tilted slightly downward, his eyes obscured by the mess of his bangs.

And he was silent.

Zoof watched him for a moment. He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge her presence, didn’t even flinch when she hit the floor.

She exhaled through her nose.

“Not much of a talker, huh?”

Nothing.

Zoof adjusted, resting one arm on her knee as she studied him. He was breathing. That was the important thing. But he wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t reacting at all.

She narrowed her eyes slightly.

Not unconscious. Just still.

That was dangerous.

She had seen men in that kind of stillness before—not the kind that came with exhaustion, but the kind that came after. After enough beatings, after enough questioning, after enough time spent trapped in a place like this.

His silence wasn’t defiance.

It was something else.

Zoof ran a tongue over the edge of a fang, considering. Who the hell was he?

More importantly—why was she in here with him?

Karn didn’t do things for no reason. This wasn’t just punishment. It was another test.

Zoof sighed, stretching out her legs before leaning her back against the opposite wall.

“Well,” she muttered, mostly to herself, “guess we’re both stuck here.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Later That Night​

Mordecai stood away from the camp, the jagged rock formations rising around him like silent witnesses to the past. Here, in the remnants of a world restarted, where time had rewritten itself, he had once painted these walls—an attempt to honor the gods. An attempt to honor Rathiel. Harwin. Mercy.

But now? Now, the truth had been laid bare. Harwin—this was no god to be honored. This was the hand that had shaped his suffering. The force that had ripped his life apart and stitched it back together with barbed wire. This was not a deity. This was the architect of his destruction.

His fingers curled, the sharp inhale of breath steadying him. His eyes burned crimson as he focused, his muscles tensing as he raised a hand, shaping the invisible force in the air before him.

His arm snapped forward.

A coil of darkness erupted from his palm, slamming into the rock with a sickening, thunderous clap. The impact cracked through the night, a violent pulse of shadow leaving deep, jagged streaks across the paintings. Every image of Harwin—defaced. Torn through. Marred by the mark of Wrath.

When the dust settled, Mordecai exhaled, slow and measured, taking a step back to admire his work. The message was clear. Wrath stood. Harwin would fall.

---

Months Later - Eryon’s Path

Eryon had pledged his allegiance to Ephraim, Mordecai, and the vision of Umbrafane. In the months that followed, he worked tirelessly, helping construct the city’s foundations—its walls, its homes, its strength. He remained devoted to its security, ensuring its defenses would hold against any threat. Yet, as Umbrafane grew, so too did the need to seek out others like him—those who had been scattered in the wake of Brakarholt’s fall. And so, Eryon took it upon himself to scout, not out of wanderlust, but duty—to find the lost, to bring them home, to strengthen the walls they had built together.

In time, he found them. Others like him. Donkeykin—displaced, hardened by survival, bound by the endurance that had defined their kind. They had been wandering the new world, forging their own paths, carrying with them the traditions and ways of their fallen homeland, uncertain of where they belonged now that everything had changed.

Eryon, steadfast as ever, told them the stories of Umbrafane. Of the city rising from nothing. Of Ephraim and Mordecai, their strength, their defiance against gods who would see them broken. He spoke of a place where the strong did not prey on the weak, but rather stood together, unyielding.

His words carried weight, echoing the spirit of something older, something familiar to them—a people who knew the cost of survival, who had always honored strength, not just of body, but of will.

The donkeykin listened. And they came. Not as lost souls seeking shelter, but as warriors, as builders, as kin. They did not come empty-handed. They built. They fought. They stood.

They brought their own customs, their own ways—battle chants that stirred the air, feasts of roaring laughter and clashing mugs, traditions of oath and iron. Their presence did not dilute Umbrafane’s vision—it forged something new, something greater. A merging of ways, a strengthening of purpose. In mere weeks, the city’s defenses had doubled in strength, their numbers reinforced by seasoned warriors, laborers, and strategists. They were a force of stability—guards at the gates, warriors in the field, the backbone of Umbrafane’s rising power.

Eryon did not call himself their leader. He did not need to. They followed him nonetheless. And as they carved their place into the bones of Umbrafane, a new culture began to take root—not one of exile, not one of mere survival, but of legacy.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

ThieviusRaccoonus will roll for 1 kid,​

I will roll for other​

3rd kid is stillborn no rolls needed​

​

Table 1: Gender (Roll 1d3)​

d3	Gender
1	Male
2	Female
3	Androgynous

Table 2: Fur Color (Roll 1d4)​

d4	Fur Color
1	Black
2	White
3	Black & White
4	Brown

​

Table 3: Personality Traits (Roll 2d30)​

d30	Personality Trait
1	Resilient – They have endured suffering, betrayal, and loss but refuse to break.
2	Commanding – Their presence alone demands attention, respect, and loyalty.
3	Fiercely Protective – They will burn the world before letting harm come to their own.
4	Strategic – Every move is calculated, every decision made with purpose.
5	Unyielding – They do not bend to gods, fate, or fear. They carve their own path.
6	Passionate – Their emotions, once stirred, are all-consuming—whether it’s love, vengeance, or fury.
7	Devoted – To each other, to their people, to their cause. Their loyalty is absolute.
8	Commanding Presence – They do not need to shout to be heard; their presence alone is enough.
9	Survivors – They have both been shaped by hardship, and they endure.
10	Magnetic – Their words and conviction draw others to them, not through force, but through sheer will.
11	Determined – Once they set their sights on a goal, they will not stop until it is realized.
12	Relentless – They do not forget, and they do not forgive. They will see things through to the end.
13	Ruthless When Necessary – They understand the cost of power and are not afraid to wield it.
14	Philosophical – They contemplate the nature of fate, gods, and existence itself.
15	Charismatic – They speak, and people listen. They command, and others follow.
16	Cunning – They see through deception and always play the long game.
17	Brooding – They carry a quiet, simmering intensity beneath their composed exterior.
18	Deeply Affectionate (But Reserved) – Their love is intense, but not openly displayed—except for those closest to them.
19	Sharp-Witted – Their humor, when it surfaces, is dark, cutting, and precise.
20	Meticulous – Every step, every plan, every move is thought out in advance.
21	Patient, but Not Passive – They do not strike first, but when they do, it is final.
22	Steadfast – They are not easily swayed, and once they decide, nothing will change their mind.
23	Silent Strength – They do not need to prove themselves with words—their actions speak for them.
24	Empathetic, But Not Weak – They understand pain, but they do not pity—they guide.
25	Loyal to the Death – Their love, once given, is eternal.
26	Focused – They do not waste time on petty emotions or distractions.
27	Grounded – Where Wrath burns, they steady. Where rage consumes, they calculate.
28	Terrifyingly Calm – They do not scream, they do not waver—they execute.
29	The Voice of Reason – While Wrath may act first, Vengeance waits.
30	Unshakable – No force, no god, no prophecy will ever decide their fate.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Name: Castara ("Kass-TAR-uh" (kahs-TAR-uh)
Gender - Female
Fur color - Black and white
Personality:
Commanding – Their presence alone demands attention, respect, and loyalty.
Magnetic – Their words and conviction draw others to them, not through force, but through sheer will.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

My Kid:
Name: Rhea

Female-Brown- Loyal to the Death – Their love, once given, is eternal. Devoted – To each other, to their people, to their cause. Their loyalty is absolute.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The World, Seven Years Later

---

The world had held its breath.

For seven years, there had been no great war. No divine retribution. No gods descending in fury. Only the steady march of time, of growth, of waiting.

The day Wrath and Vengeance reclaimed their names and their power, the course of history had shifted. But no divine force had struck them down. No unseen hand had moved to stop them. Harwin—gone. The Harlekin—vanished. And yet, Wrath knew. This was not peace. This was the pause before the inevitable.

To the North, Karn ruled.

The former military commander of Dunemire had not wasted the years. She had carved out her own kingdom in the desolate reaches of the northern expanse, her iron will bending the chaos of the Riftkin-infested lands into something controlled. Her dominion was not a city—it was a fortress. A nation built on order, discipline, and the ironclad truth that strength ruled above all. The Riftkin answered to her. At least, the ones that could be tamed. The Wild Riftkin still roamed, still stalked the edges of the world, a lingering stain of what had once been chaos unbound.

But they did not step beyond their place. Karn saw to that. She had no time for the war of gods. Her battle was with the Riftkin, and she waged it with ruthless efficiency.

Meanwhile, Umbrafane had flourished.

What had begun as a fortress of necessity had transformed into something greater. A city—not of fear, not of desperation, but of purpose. The walls, great and towering, formed an unbreakable ring, a circular haven against the unknown. Inside, the city pulsed with life. Kin had come. From all over, seeking sanctuary, seeking strength, seeking something that did not demand servitude or fear—only loyalty to its cause. Some had chosen Karn’s rule instead, but for many, Umbrafane was home.

It had been built not as an empire, not as another City of Unity, but as something new. Its design bore the mark of Wrath and Vengeance—a towering gothic presence of blackened stone, spires reaching skyward, windows tall and elegant, like the open eyes of something eternal. The city did not bow to the gods. It did not pray for salvation. It had been built with its own hands, by its own people, and it stood unshaken.

The Riftkin Sector had been… an experiment.

Where once all Riftkin had been seen as uncontained, some had proven otherwise. Some had reason. Some had restraint. And those few had been granted a place. Not within the walls of kin—but within their own sector, a district built not of fear, but of understanding. The Riftkin who lived there understood the rules. They understood the cost of betraying the fragile peace they had been given.

And for seven years, they had held to it.

Avarice never returned.

The arctic fox, once an ally, once a presence at their side, had vanished into the unknown. No word. No body. No trace.

• Silvano, ever the trickster, still roamed the streets of Umbrafane, playing at leisure while always watching, always calculating.
• Eryon, the steadfast, had done more than fight—he had brought a people home. The donkeykin had settled into Umbrafane, not as refugees, but as warriors, as builders, as kin. They had strengthened the city’s backbone, turned its walls into something greater. He had been named Commander of Forces.
• Riversong had remained, though the weight of time had softened her presence. She no longer feared Wrath. She no longer feared what her son had become. She had lived long enough to understand.
• Jasper, ever the enigma, had stayed—not for loyalty, not for duty, but because this was where the cosmic wheel had placed him. And who was he to argue with fate?
• Buzz and Clover had eventually found their way to the city, though time had not been kind. Clover had lost an arm, replaced it with a mechanical prosthetic, a relic of past war and past pain. But they still stood.
• And at the heart of it all, Mordecai and Ephraim remained.

Unlike the rulers of past ages, they did not hide themselves behind golden gates, did not distance themselves in royal chambers. They walked among their people. Their quarters were not separate, not elevated. They lived in the city they had built. They spoke to those who followed them. They were not unreachable gods.

They were kin.

Ephraim had borne children.

Two daughters. Rhea and Castara.

And one stillborn.

As the prophecy had foretold.

The weight of that truth had not passed unnoticed. Even as the world seemed still, even as the days turned into years, Vengeance had not forgotten.

And neither had Wrath.

The Harlekin were gone. Completely. Utterly. No trace, no whispers, not even a fragment of their existence left in the world. Ephraim and Mordecai had searched. They had called out into the void. But the silence remained.

And Harwin had not spoken.

Wrath’s fury had simmered in that silence. He had waited.

For seven years, he had waited.

But the world would not remain still forever.

The Riftkin still roamed. Karn’s kingdom still grew. The forces that had once shattered time had not vanished.

They had only stepped back.

But not for much longer.

And so, as the sun rose over Umbrafane’s towering walls, as the city bustled with life, as children played in the streets of a home that had once been only a dream—

Wrath watched.

Vengeance watched.

And somewhere, in the depths of the unseen, so did something else.

---

Karn’s Kingdom—The Council Chamber

The air in Karn’s hall was thick with spice and incense, a heady, intoxicating scent that curled through the chamber like an unseen presence, draped over every surface like a silken shroud. The walls, dark and gilded, bore no false modesty—this was not a place for the weak. Velvet curtains framed massive arched windows, the desert sun filtering in through slats of gold and blood-red, painting the chamber in shifting shades of wealth and danger.

Karn had built her kingdom as a fortress, but she ruled it as a queen.

And like a queen, she was adorned. Draped in layers of crimson and black, her high-collared coat split down the back to allow the full span of her vulture-like wings to stretch, their feathers sleek, sharp, imposing. The medals she had once worn in Dunemire’s army had long since been replaced with jewelry of her own design—rings of obsidian, chains of gold, talon-shaped cuffs hooked over her fingers like weapons of decadence. She did not fight with blades anymore. She fought with power.

And power, here, was a performance.

Karn reclined in her throne-like chair, sprawled and at ease, but never vulnerable. Her talons tapped idly against the armrest, her dark eyes flickering between her guests with the sharp, assessing gaze of a predator calculating its next meal.

At her side, a gathering of men—her chosen servants—stood like living ornaments, dressed in garments of loose, fine silk, their forms poised, quiet, meant to be seen but not heard. They carried trays of exotic fruits, golden goblets filled with rich wine, carafes of dark liquors strong enough to burn. They were there to serve, to adorn, to remind those who entered Karn’s domain exactly who ruled here.

But the rulers of Umbrafane were not so easily impressed.

They stood at the opposite end of the long table, the flickering candlelight casting tall, elongated shadows against the walls behind them. The sight was striking—Wrath and Vengeance, side by side, unbowed, unshaken.

Ephraim, ever the colder presence, stood with one hand resting lightly against her hip, her fur dark beneath the glint of candlelight, her purple eyes unreadable. The spiraled obsidian of her horns caught the light as she inclined her head slightly, listening. Where Mordecai burned, she stabilized. Where Wrath rumbled in anticipation, Vengeance waited.

Their presence in this room was not ceremony. It was not diplomacy.

It was a statement.

The two great cities of the new world had existed in an unspoken balance—until now.

Umbrafane had been left alone to rise, Karn had been left alone to rule. Their paths had not crossed. There had been no war, no tension.

And yet, something had changed.

Something had forced this meeting.

Karn was the first to speak.

Her lips curled into something resembling a smirk, her sharp gaze dragging over them, taking in every inch of their posture, their presence, their purpose.

“Well,” she purred, her voice like silk threaded with steel, “it seems Umbrafane has finally decided to grace my halls. I was beginning to think the two of you were content to rule in your own shadows, waiting for the world to come knocking.”

She raised a hand, and one of her servants stepped forward, a tray in hand, golden goblets filled with dark liquor balanced atop it. Without looking, Karn plucked one from the tray and took a slow sip, her eyes never leaving them.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai steps forward, the firelight glinting off the crimson in his eyes. He does not smile. He does not bow. He watches her the way a predator watches another, assessing, waiting for the first misstep.

His grip tightens slightly around his cane, the weight of it familiar beneath his fingers. The skeletal goat head atop it gleams in the dim candlelight, its hollow eyes fixed forward, an unspoken warning as his thumb idly traces the curve of its skull. The presence of Wrath lingers in his frame, subtle but undeniable—the stretch of his limbs just a little too sharp, the shadows of his fur shifting like living ink, the quiet tension of restrained power beneath his regal posture. Yet, for all that he has become, there is no unruliness in him. He is measured. Controlled. A force honed to precision.

“Content to rule in the shadows? Hm.” He exhales, low, thoughtful.
“You speak as if Umbrafane was waiting for the world’s attention. You mistake us for something that wants to be seen.”

His gaze flickers across the gold-lined walls, the velvet curtains, the attendants posed like statues—a kingdom carved from spectacle. He meets Karn’s gaze again, unshaken.

“The difference between us, Karn, is simple. You have built a throne for yourself.” A pause, deliberate. “We have built a future.”

His voice dips, quieter, but no less powerful.

“Thrones can be overturned. Futures, however…” He lets the words hang, the weight of them settling between them.

Then, finally—a smirk, razor-thin and knowing.

“You wanted our attention. You have it. I do hope you make it worth our time.”

As the words settle into the air, Mordecai’s gaze flickers downward, just for a fraction of a second. The golden goblet in Karn’s hand, the dark liquid swirling within. A momentary thought—too brief to betray itself, too sharp to be ignored.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Perception Reward: It truly is wine, but the alcohol content level is unclear to you.

Karn does not bristle beneath Mordecai’s words. She smiles. Not in amusement, not in anger—but in acknowledgment.

She leans forward just slightly in her throne, the goblet of dark wine still in hand, the gold of her rings catching in the candlelight. The movement is casual, practiced—a ruler who knows exactly what she is.

"You're right," she murmurs, swirling the wine in her glass, the deep red liquid catching the flickering glow of the room. "I have built a throne for myself."

Her eyes meet his, unwavering.

"And I have no shame in that, Mordecai." Her voice is smooth, but there is weight to the title she gives him, a deliberate choice in not speaking his mortal name. "I built it because no one else would. Because someone had to take control." She tilts her head slightly, gaze sharp, calculating, "After all, the world does not wait, and it does not move for those who refuse to claim their place."

She lifts the goblet, takes a slow sip, watching him from over the rim. His eyes flicker ever so slightly to the liquid, and the corner of her mouth lifts. She sees the thought before he speaks it.

"Hm." She lowers the goblet, extending it toward one of the servants, who wordlessly takes it from her hand. She gestures, lazy but deliberate, to another tray—a bottle of the same deep red liquid, freshly poured into a glass.

"But you misunderstand me. I did not summon you here to posture over who has the better kingdom, nor to demand submission or conflict." A pause. She is gauging them. Measuring. Watching how Ephraim’s eyes do not waver, how Mordecai’s presence does not shift.

She lifts a hand, and the door opens.

A tall figure enters the chamber—a dinosaurkin, broad-shouldered, clad in sleek leather armor fitted for precision rather than brute strength. His form is lined with years of honed skill, his movement as sharp and deliberate as the arrows slung across his back. His gaze is piercing, his presence unfaltering.

Eoghan.

Loyal. Unquestioning. A second shadow to Karn herself.

He does not bow. He does not need to. He steps forward, holding out a thick stack of aged parchment, the edges slightly curled, the ink dark but unfamiliar. He places it onto the table between them.

Karn gestures to it.

"These," she says, "keep appearing at my doorstep."

Her eyes flick toward Ephraim now, waiting, watching for a reaction.

"They are multiplying. More every week. Copies, translations, versions from those who barely understand the script, yet still pass it along like scripture." A slow exhale. "And it seems, dear Ephraim—that you are the one who writes them."

She says it with no accusation, no malice. Only fact.

Eoghan steps back, watching carefully, his golden reptilian eyes scanning the room, his fingers resting idly against the hilt of his dagger. He is not concerned that they will react poorly. But he is always ready.

Karn gestures again. "Tell me. What exactly am I reading?"

And Ephraim does not hesitate.

She reaches forward, placing a hand on the parchment, a certainty in her touch.

"You are reading history," she says. "The truth. The war that was waged long before this world was remade. The war that will come again."

She lifts her gaze, unwavering, as her voice carries through the chamber.

"You are reading of the transition from Mercy to Vengeance. Of Wrath’s return. Of what was stolen from us, what Harwin has done, what he still seeks to undo."

A pause.

"You are reading the warnings."

Her fingers tighten slightly over the script.

"You are reading what the Harlekin do not want you to see."

Silence settles like a storm waiting to break.

Karn exhales slowly through her nose, fingers tapping idly against the arm of her throne. The firelight glints off her golden rings as she leans her weight to one side, resting her chin against her knuckles.

Her expression is unreadable. Not anger. Not amusement. Something between calculation and disinterest.

“Warnings,” she repeats, voice as dry as the northern air. She lifts a brow. “Has the world not already suffered enough self-fulfilling prophecies?"

The weight of Ephraim’s words still hangs in the air, but Karn does not move to acknowledge them as truth.

Instead, she leans back, motioning vaguely toward the stack of papers between them.

"Harwin. The Harlekin. The rewriting of the world," she lists, voice slow, deliberate. "And here I thought gods meddling in mortal affairs was an old tale. One that has played its course too many times."

She scoffs, just slightly. "You write as if war is inevitable. As if we should be bracing for something lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike.” Her fingers flick against the parchment, dismissive. “But I have yet to see a single blade drawn against us in seven years.”

A slow blink. She does not look at the scripts again. She looks at Ephraim.

“What makes you so certain that you are not simply chasing ghosts?”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai kept an eye on Karn, watching her, watching the wine. He waited for a moment before taking one of the glasses, allowing himself to sip. His gaze went over to Eoghan and instantly, felt something inside. Memories. The old timeline. The bastard along Ashen who tried to strike an arrow at Ephraim during The Augur. Mordecai's hand tightened slightly around the wine glass as he watched before turning back to Karn. But then felt another stir.

"How dare she deny us. To mock as if we are old myths. A child's bedtime story." Wrath growled inside of Mordecai's thoughts, his voice echoing. It angered Mordecai too. His body tensing slightly, his canine lupine-like tail behind him giving one heavy flick in irritation before stiffening. He focused on her, silent, then spoke.

"Your kingdom thrives on control. A delicate thing, isn't it? How easily one misplaced step, one miscalculated risk, and suddenly—there is something greater than you. And you cannot control what you refuse to acknowledge."

He let the words settle, heavy as they were, before his red gaze flickered toward the parchment stacked before them. His fingers tapped idly against the rim of his glass, his tone dropping into something more precise, more cutting.

"These warnings? They are not omens scrawled by fearful hands. They are history. Our history. What Ephraim has written is not a prophecy, not a cautionary tale meant to frighten the weak-hearted—it is a reckoning. A record of what was, of what will be. You look upon these words and scoff, Karn, because you believe that time will stand still for you. That because the world has yet to move against you, it never will. A naive thought. Short-sighted. A throne built on the assumption that the gods have gone silent because they are dead, rather than simply waiting."

Irritation lingered on Mordecai, him and Wrath, their anger. Mordecai's shadow flickered slightly behind him, Wrath listening and watching.

"I wonder, Karn, when you sleep at night, do you ever hear them? The echoes of what you refuse to see? Or have you convinced yourself, as so many have before, that if you do not look into the abyss, it will not look back?"

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim had been patient. She had listened, let Karn speak, let her dismiss, let her deny.

But Vengeance was not so easily ignored.

"She does not fear what she does not understand."

The voice curled through her mind, slow and deliberate, an ever-present force within her. As Karn scoffed, as she waved away the truth as if it were a passing inconvenience, it stirred.

"And when the time comes, when the world shifts beneath her feet, she will learn."

Ephraim’s fingers rested lightly against the table’s surface, the tension in her shoulders locked in place, controlled. But her eyes—her violet eyes burned.

She let her certainty settle over the room like a slow, creeping shadow. Karn had always ruled with strength, with unshaken confidence. She knew how to handle defiance, how to counter threats.

"You misunderstand our intentions, Karn," she said. "We do not expect you to believe."

She leaned forward slightly, the weight of her words settling between them.

"We expect you to remember."

A pause. Deliberate. Heavy.

"When the Riftkin you cannot control begin to act in ways you cannot predict. When the things you have dismissed as old stories return, clawing at the edges of your walls. When the silence you have taken for peace begins to break—you will remember what I have written."

Karn’s gaze flickered toward Ephraim, then to Mordecai, then back to the parchment spread before her. The firelight made the inked words dance, the weight of prophecy pressed into delicate script. But she was no fool. She did not kneel before words.

She leaned forward, resting an elbow against the gilded armrest of her throne, fingers tapping against her goblet as she studied them both. Assessing. Calculating.

“Should I tremble?” Her lips curled, voice smooth as silk drawn over steel. “The difference between us, Ephraim, Mordecai, is that I do not open my doors to the things that creep in the night and then beg the gods to protect me from them.”

A slow sip of wine, deliberate, measured. She let the weight of her words settle.

“Umbrafane has built its walls tall, yes. Strong, even. But..." she tilted her head slightly, feigned curiosity slipping into her expression, “how strong does a fortress remain when you let the enemy sleep inside its halls?”

She set the goblet down, eyes glinting with something sharp, something knowing.

“You house Riftkin. You offer them sanctuary. The very creatures that tore through our world, that turned our lands into battlefields, that devoured kin without remorse. And yet, you give them quarter. You call them kin. You tell yourselves that some of them are different, that they can be reasoned with, that their nature can be softened.”

A pause, her fingers lacing together beneath her chin.

“You are making a mistake.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai watched, his glare never leaving Karn, even as her eyes focused on Ephraim most of the time. His grip on his cane tightened, fingers curling around the skeletal goat head atop it. His legs crossed in the chair, posture composed, but Wrath stirred beneath the surface. "Tear this room into darkness. Show her the fear." The voice curled in his ear, venomous, impatient. But Mordecai did not move. Not yet. There were better ways to break a throne than by force.

He exhaled slowly, then let out a sharp, almost amused breath. “Ah. Of course.” A smirk, razor-thin and knowing. “I suppose I shouldn’t expect you to understand the Riftkin, not when I saw how you treated your own soulvow.” He tilted his head slightly, watching her. “What was it again? Oh, yes. Ashen.”

The name fell like a stone into still water.

He leaned back in his chair, one hand still resting idly atop his cane, tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against the polished bone. “You wanted control over something that was never meant to be controlled. I saw what you did. The whips, the beatings, the delusions you forced upon him. How you tried to break him into something obedient, something small enough to fit within your grasp.” His eyes darkened, voice dipping into something dangerously soft. “But you failed, didn’t you? And now, all you can do is sneer at those who refused to make the same mistake.”

His tail flicked, slow, measured, a subtle warning before he continued.

“You fear the Riftkin because you cannot command them. You cannot bend them to your will, cannot place a collar around their throats and expect them to heel. And that infuriates you, doesn’t it?” His smirk sharpened, a cruel edge forming at the corners. “You would rather see them as beasts, because the alternative—the truth—is unbearable for you.”

His voice turned sharper, colder, as he pressed further.

“You speak of control as if it is a strength, as if it is power, but all I see is desperation. You hold your little kingdom together with an iron grip, clenching so tightly you don’t even realize the cracks forming beneath your fingers. You are not a ruler, Karn—you are a frightened animal in a gilded cage of your own making, gnashing your teeth at the things you cannot tame.”

He let the words settle, let them sink in, let them weigh upon her as he continued, voice smooth, composed, yet dripping with condescension.

“But tell me, Karn. What happens when the day comes where you face something you cannot control? Something that does not bow, does not kneel, does not break under your precious discipline?” A slight tilt of his head. “Will you discard your entire kingdom, the same way you discarded him?”

His fingers curled once more around the cane, the candlelight casting shadows against his face. “The Riftkin are not yours to control. They are not yours to fear. They are ours to protect.” A slow inhale. “And no matter how you justify it, no matter how you spin your tales of caution and arrogance, the truth remains the same—”

His red eyes gleamed, voice dropping into something low, precise, final.

“Umbrafane will never be your kingdom. And you? You will never hold dominion over what we’ve built. Wrath and Vengeance will always be there."

He looked over to Ephraim, the flick of his tail signaling that he no longer cared to entertain Karn.