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

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai watched as Mern approached, every step measured, deliberate—theatrical, but not hollow. Silvano, as usual, hadn’t exaggerated his flair for drama. The young Flamingokin was dripping in reverence, practically cloaked in scripture. Mordecai could see it—the devotion, the discipline, the genuine belief that Umbrafane stood as more than stone and flame. To Mern, this was sanctum. Purpose. Wrath and Vengeance, embodied.

Still…

Mordecai’s red eyes narrowed slightly as he sat straighter in his chair, one clawed hand resting atop the skeletal goat-head of his cane.

“Umbrae gratae et acceptae,” he answered, voice low, steady, the old tongue rolling off his tongue with practiced weight. Shadows welcomed and accepted.

A glance to Silvano.

The foxkin was grinning—wide, toothy, a beacon of mischief—offering Mordecai a jaunty thumbs-up before turning dramatically toward Mern, elbows on the table, eyes gleaming with theatrical delight.

“Oh, Mern, truly—a vision! A poet! Dignified! Devoted! A man of refined tastes and tempered grace. Yes?” He turned his head back toward Mordecai, brow raised, expectant and smug. “Don’t you agree, Mordecai? Quite the gem, wouldn’t you say?”

Mordecai’s gaze didn’t shift immediately, but when it did, it was flat, unimpressed, lingering on Silvano just long enough to say, You’re enjoying this too much. Then—back to Mern.

“Mern,” he began, voice even, with no softness in its cadence, “as you know, the position of Seneschal is not ceremonial. It is not for show.” He let the words settle for half a beat, watching Mern’s posture, reading him like open scripture.

“We need a voice. A bridge between the laborers of Umbrafane and this council. Someone who speaks their truth, understands their needs… and brings them to us without distortion.”

Mordecai leaned forward slightly, weight behind his words.

“You’ve earned respect. The market listens to you. The workers trust you. That is no small feat.” He paused, eyes narrowing, voice dropping to a cold truth. “But charm, Mern—charm and appearances—will only take you so far.” A flicker of a glance toward Silvano. Deliberate. Ironic.

Silvano gasped mock-offended, placing a paw to his chest, but said nothing.

Mordecai continued, unmoved.

“When the fires rise—when decisions need to be made in the moment—charm won’t save you.” His hand gripped the top of his cane with slow, visible pressure. “Rhetoric doesn’t quench blood. It doesn’t rebuild streets. It doesn’t carry the weight of a city on the edge of something greater.”

His gaze sharpened, voice softening into something more dangerous—expectant, commanding.

“I see your potential. Wrath sees it. You’ve offered your devotion. That’s admirable. It will be remembered.” A pause. His voice grew lower. “But potential alone is nothing if you hesitate. If you fumble. If you fall into the trap of believing admiration is achievement.”

He let the silence press down like weight, before his final words cut through it—measured, but edged with steel.

“Umbrafane cannot rest in careless hands. This position is not a title—it is a burden. You will carry it well, or you will not carry it at all.”

A long pause, his crimson eyes locked on Mern, unflinching.

“Let’s see if you understand what that means.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Mern had expected to be tested. To be scrutinized. To be judged. But this? This was the weight of Wrath itself.

The moment Mordecai spoke, the air in the chamber changed. No raised voice, no dramatic flourish—just presence. Cold and absolute. Mern felt it settle on his chest like a great stone, pressing against the fragile, gilded ribs of his certainty.

His talons twitched where they lay folded over his heart.

The words cut. Not cruelly, not unfairly, but with the precision of a blade sharpened by years of war and loss. And Mern—Mern who had spent his life in the comfort of adoration, in the warmth of the people's trust—felt something inside him tremble.

He had never faced a gaze like Mordecai’s. Not truly. Not one that saw.

For a single, dreadful moment, he wondered if he had made a mistake.

But then— Beneath the crushing weight of it all, beneath the quiet terror of standing before the judgment of Wrath, something in him burned.

He had been raised in halls of diplomacy, yes. He had been taught to smile and soothe, yes. But he had also been raised in devotion. In faith. In fire. In purpose.

"I hear you."

His voice did not falter.

"I hear you, my lord. And I am afraid." His head lifted slightly, his pink eyes locked onto Mordecai’s—still wide, still edged with that trembling devotion, but steadied by something deeper. Conviction."

"But you are right." He swallowed once, the dryness in his throat a reminder of the sheer presence of Wrath pressing down upon him. "Admiration is not achievement. Charm will not carry this city forward. And if I take on this duty, if I stand in this place, I will be tested again and again. Not with words, but with fire. With blood. With the weight of lives that cannot afford to be failures of rhetoric."

"I cannot promise to be what I am not. I will never be a soldier. I will never be a warlord." His voice was quieter now, but still sure. Still steady. "But I can promise this."

A breath. "I will learn.... I will listen... And I will not hesitate."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai did not move. He studied Mern, eyes locked, unblinking, as if weighing him—not just his words, but his very soul. Wrath stirred, a low thrum beneath his skin, silent but felt. Mern felt it too. Mordecai could see it—the tremor in his breath, the steel forming beneath it.

Good.

Let them feel Wrath.

Let them remember what it means to serve.

He leaned forward slightly, his cane tapping once against the floor—a measured sound, sharp and deliberate.

“You’re afraid?” he echoed, his voice calm, almost curious.

Then he leaned back, slowly, the slightest curl tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Good.”

Silence stretched for a moment.

“That fear will keep you sharp. Fear teaches us. Sharpens us. Makes us precise. You will not find safety in comfort here—not in this hall, not in this city. And if fear lives in you… then you will be ready when it matters.”

His words held no venom—only truth, carved clean as steel, cold as the stone beneath them.

He let the weight of it settle, then nodded once—final, decisive.

Silvano, still lounging as if the world itself was a stage, gave an exaggerated shiver, fluffing his fur with a dramatic flair.

“Ohoho! Did it just get a little drafty in here?” He flicked his ears playfully. “My stars, Mordecai, you’ve frozen the poor boy with your brooding again.” A beat. A grin. “Glorious.”

Mordecai shot him a glare—pointed, but not without familiarity—before turning back to Mern, his tone firm.

“Thank you for your dedication, Mern. Your faith. Your belief. That is not dismissed lightly.” A slow nod, the weight of authority in every word. “I expect great work. Growth. Results.”

A pause—then, the final decree, edged with respect but laced with warning.

“Welcome to the council. Do not waste this.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

His body felt taut, his nerves still strung tight from the weight of Wrath’s judgment, but he did not falter.

Instead, he accepted.

His talons touched his heart again, then his forehead, his beak—a prayer of temperance, of gratitude, of silent promise.

He lifted his head, pink eyes burning with something deeper now. The fear was still there, but it had been tempered into something useful—something his.

“Wrath sees me,” he murmured, not to Mordecai, not to Silvano, but as an affirmation to himself. “And I will prove worthy.”

With that, he stood—graceful, composed, only the faintest tremor in his feathers betraying what he had just endured. He dipped into a deep bow, the kind not of submission, but of devotion.

“My lords,” he said, voice smoother now, carrying the weight of reverence but no longer trembling. “It will be done.”

And with that, he turned, stepping back toward the great doors of the chamber.

His talons clicked against the polished floor, each step an echo of the path he had just chosen.

He did not look back.

---

Ephraim sat across from Riversong in the quiet sanctuary of the garden, the scent of damp earth and iron-tinged ivy clinging to the cool evening air. The lanterns above cast long, gentle shadows across the trellises, flickering against the deep hues of Umbrafane’s encroaching night.

She did not speak immediately. Instead, she let the silence breathe—let it stretch between them like an old friend. This was how it always was with Riversong. There was no rush. No need to fill the space with meaningless words.

But still, Ephraim’s thoughts weighed heavy.

Finally, she exhaled, rubbing at her temple with slow, methodical pressure. “I can’t decide if Karn was playing us or if she truly believed herself generous.” Her voice was even, measured—but laced with something sharp beneath the surface. Not anger. Not yet. Just calculation.

She looked toward Riversong then, studying the lines of her face, the way time had settled into her presence like a patient river carving its path through stone. “She did not offer Callabassas as a gift,” Ephraim said, tone clipped, precise. “Not a test, either. That would have been too simple. Too obvious.”

She laced her fingers together, resting her chin lightly atop them. Thinking.

“She wanted to see if we would take him. Not because she doubts us—no, that isn’t it. She’s too proud for that.” A pause, her violet gaze narrowing in thought. “She wanted to see if he would come to us willingly. And he did.”

Her fingers tightened slightly.

“She let him make the choice."

That was what irked her. Not Callabassas himself—he was a child, and she had no resentment for him. But Karn had placed him here with the care of an artist setting a single piece in the perfect spot on a board.

She scoffed softly, leaning back against the stone bench, her head tilting toward the sky. “And now we have a son we did not expect. And a thread that ties us to a woman who would rather see us buried beneath our own ambition.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, more thoughtful.

“…And yet.”

Her fingers relaxed, resting against the fabric of her sleeve.

“He chose us. He walked forward of his own will... and apart of me can't help feel drawn to him, as if he is the one I was meant to have."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai watched as Mern exited. A new piece had been set on the board. Umbrafane grew, stretched, and shifted beneath Wrath’s watchful eye—and now Mern would carry a thread of that weight. Whether he would hold it with care or let it slip remained to be seen.

But Wrath’s presence would remain. Always.

Mordecai nodded once, then turned his attention toward Silvano.

"Now, to other matters," he said, his voice low, precise.

Silvano perked up immediately, his ears flicking with interest as a slow grin stretched across his muzzle. "Ah yes, the other matters..." he echoed, practically purring the words as he shifted in his seat with exaggerated flair. He watched Mordecai for a beat, then gave a theatrical sigh.

"Alas, I wish I could offer you better news, my shadowy friend, but unfortunately... there is nothing." His tone wasn’t mocking—no playful tease or sly misdirection. Just the truth. Unembellished, disappointing.

Mordecai exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. He wasn’t surprised, but still, the answer settled like lead in his gut. Silvano, for all his eccentricity, was Umbrafane’s eyes and ears—the shadow behind the shadows. Where Mordecai moved with purpose and control, Silvano slithered through the undercurrents, collecting whispers like coins.

And Mordecai had tasked him with more than the city’s secrets.

Avarice.

"Still nothing..." Mordecai muttered, his gaze narrowing.

Silvano shook his head, his tails flicking. "I’ve heard many things! Jericho and Savannah down the trade lane? Lovers’ quarrel—again. She says..." Silvano’s voice shifted into a high-pitched, overly dramatic imitation, "‘Ohhh, Jericho has changed. He’s different now.’" He rolled his eyes, dropping back into his normal tone with a chuckle. "I give it two weeks. Maybe three if she’s feeling sentimental."

He drummed his claws along the edge of the table. "There was a bar fight, too. Very lively. Remarkably poor form, but entertaining nonetheless. But on our elusive, arctic friend?" He clicked his tongue with mock regret. "Not a single whisper. Not even a trail of snow."

Mordecai said nothing for a moment. Just sat in silence, the weight of seven years pressing in. Seven years since the bridge. Since Avarice vanished like mist.

He shook his head slowly, the echo of silence louder than any noise.

---

Riversong didn’t answer Ephraim right away. She rarely did—not because she didn’t have words, but because she understood their power, their weight. Let the river run its course first, she’d always told Jasper. And Ephraim’s river was still moving.

She shifted, her hands resting loosely in her lap, her fingers grazing a smooth stone she’d picked from the garden path earlier—a grounding habit, a piece of the earth to hold while the air remained heavy.

“Karn hasn’t changed,” she said at last, her voice low and even, like water over stone. “Not truly. She still walks the world like it owes her something… like every soul is another piece on the board.” Her gaze drifted upward for a moment, to the twisting branches above that stretched into the dusk. “She tried to study me once. Long ago. Laid out idols, incense, tests meant to peel someone apart and label the pieces. As if the shape of your soul could be decided by what you touched.”

Her lips curled faintly—not a smile, exactly, but something close. “She thought I would be easy to read. But I walked away before she could finish her tests.”

Her eyes flicked to Ephraim now, sharp despite the softness of her voice.

“But you’re right. She didn’t give you a son, and she didn’t test you either. Karn doesn’t waste time on gifts or games she can’t win. She offered a thread.” Riversong’s hand lifted, fingers weaving slowly in the air as though mimicking fate’s loom. “And she wanted to see if you’d pull it… or let it dangle.”

A breath, steady. Knowing.

“She didn’t expect to lose control of that thread. But Callabassas chose you. And that—that is something she can’t unmake.”

Her hand lowered, resting atop Ephraim’s, the gesture light but firm, grounding like her voice.

“We don’t get the children we expect,” Riversong murmured. Her thumb traced slow circles. “You and Mordecai... you carry love for a child who was never given the chance to live. I felt it, long before those two were born. I felt the space left behind the moment you stepped into this garden.” Her voice didn’t waver. “That space has waited—but it does not have to remain empty.”

Her gaze was calm now, but unflinching, as though she were watching the river’s course in Ephraim’s eyes.

“Maybe Callabassas isn’t what you expected. But rivers don’t flow backward. They take what’s given, and they shape the land around it.”

She let that sit a moment, then added, softly, “Don’t fight the shape this one brings. You lost a child before they could draw breath. Now... another stands before you. Not to replace, no. But to be something new.”

A pause, filled only by the rustling of ivy and the flicker of lantern light.

“Sometimes the world gives back. Not in the way we want—but in the way we need.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Rhea flopped onto her bed with an exaggerated sigh, her curls bouncing slightly as she did so. The rich burgundy fabric of her dress pooled around her as she stretched her arms out dramatically, staring up at the ceiling.

“Well,” she huffed, voice dripping with dramatic flair, “we have a boy in the house now.”

She turned her head toward Castara, her golden eyes wide with faux seriousness. “A boy, Castara. Can you believe it?”

She rolled onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows, kicking her hooves in the air behind her. “And not just any boy—Dunemire’s boy.” She whispered it like a secret, despite there being no one else around.

She pouted slightly, resting her chin in her hands. “Do you think he’s, you know… weird?”

Before Castara could answer, Rhea kept going, her voice picking up speed as thoughts spilled out.

“I mean, he’s a hybrid. And a prince—kind of? And his mom is her, you know—” she waved a hand vaguely in the air, as if that explained everything. “But then he knelt, like, proper knelt before papa like Wrath himself was in the room, and that was kinda cool but also super intense, and I just—”

She flopped onto her back again, sighing loudly. “What do we do with him?”

Then, after a moment, she gasped, sitting up quickly.

“Oh! Do you think he knows how to braid hair?”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Castara sat upright on her bed, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap, as if the chaos of Rhea’s dramatics weren’t happening just across the room. Her black-and-white fur was immaculately groomed—as always—and her sharp golden eyes followed her sister with a mixture of exasperation and patient resignation.

"You’re overreacting," she said plainly, her tone calm, composed—commanding, in the way only Castara could manage at seven years old. "He’s not an alien, Rhea. He’s a boy."

Her ears flicked slightly, her gaze never leaving Rhea, even as she smoothed a wrinkle in her dress. "Yes, from Dunemire. Yes, he’s a hybrid. But he’s not some kind of... mystery creature." She raised one brow pointedly. "Father wouldn’t bring home someone dangerous. And Mother wouldn’t allow it."

She stood, moving with careful precision as she approached the window, her arms crossing lightly. Her voice softened, but the authority never wavered.

"He’s here because he wants to be. That’s more than most could say about Dunemire."

Then, without turning, she added, "If he can’t braid hair, that’s his problem. I’m not wasting time on frilly things."

A pause. Her tail flicked once.

"Just... don’t scare him. He already looked nervous enough when you started talking about his mother killing people for sneezing."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Rhea gasped, sitting up so fast she nearly knocked over the pillow she’d been dramatically leaning against.

“Ohhh,” she breathed, eyes wide with scandalous realization. “What if he’s here for an arranged marriage?”

She clutched her own face, ears twitching with excitement. “I knew something felt off about this whole thing! He’s not just some random prince-boy from Dunemire, he’s a suitor!”

Rhea kicked her hooves in the air, then turned her full attention to Castara, practically vibrating. “Oh, Castara! This means he’s here for you!”

She clasped her hands together, beaming. “It makes so much sense! You’re so serious, and proper, and father likes him—which, you know is impossible for most people.” She nodded to herself as if that confirmed everything. “And mother—mother definitely knew. That’s why she let him stay. Obviously!”

Rhea gasped again, louder, as if the idea had just gotten even better in her head. “Ooooh, and then you’ll have hybrid babies! With, like, half feathers, half fur! And mother will be so pleased, and father will act all grumpy about it but secretly approve—”

She suddenly flopped back onto the bed, a dreamy sigh escaping her lips. “A royal romance, just like the stories,” she murmured, staring at the ceiling.

A pause.

Then she sat up again, ears flicking.

“Wait.” Her brows furrowed. “What if he’s here for me?”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Castara sat upright on her bed, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap, as if the chaos of Rhea’s dramatics weren’t happening just across the room. Her black-and-white fur was immaculately groomed—as always—and her sharp golden eyes followed her sister with a mixture of exasperation and patient resignation.

She groaned. Loudly.

"Rhea, you are being so annoying," she declared, crossing her arms with the gravity of a judge delivering a final verdict. "That is not what’s happening. You’re so obsessed with boys. Do you think about anything else? Honestly. Boys are gross. People are gross."

Her tone was dry, flat, laced with unimpressed authority. "I hate everyone. I’m not getting married. And Callabassas is not a suitor."

She stood and paced to the window, her tail flicking once with purpose as she looked out over the garden. Then, without turning, she added, “Now, here for you?” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Go ahead. Marry him. Have weird hybrid babies. I’m not stopping you.”

She adjusted the sleeve of her dress with practiced care, not sparing a glance at Rhea.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Callabassas had only meant to find his way back after getting a little lost in the halls. The estate was quite large and he had been cautiously wandering, trying not to look too much like he had no idea where he was going.

Then, as he turned a corner, he heard the unmistakable sound of Rhea shrieking.

His feathers puffed slightly, alarmed, but before he could react, words started filtering through.

Callabassas froze in the doorway.

His whole body stiffened, eyes going wide in absolute horror.

Huh?

His tail flicked behind him, betraying his sheer internal panic as his golden eyes darted between the two sisters. Castara, poised and completely unbothered. Rhea, looking like she had just been struck by divine revelation and disaster all at once.

He felt like he had just walked into the middle of something very dangerous.

"Uhh…" His voice cracked slightly as he tried to pretend he hadn’t just heard all of that. “...Hi?”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The door creaked slightly, and Castara turned her head.

Oh no. Callabassas.

It wasn’t his sudden presence that bothered her. It was the inevitable reaction of Rhea, who could never control herself and would surely launch into some ridiculous, rambling performance.

"You made a mistake finding this room," Castara said dryly, her eyes narrowing in amusement. A sly smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, warning him of the storm he’d just walked into.

She eyed him for a moment—how he stood there stiffly, feathered features tense, eyes wide with horror.

"I’m sure it must feel weird being in this gothic house with... goats," she said, tilting her head slightly. "Well, dark goats of Wrath and Vengeance." Her smirk widened slightly, voice low and teasing. "Our parents are pretty cool."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Callabassas had made a lot of mistakes in his short life. Tripping during formal court gatherings? Yes. Accidentally calling one of his mother’s generals Mom once? Also yes. Thinking he could escape this conversation? Biggest mistake yet.

His golden eyes flicked nervously between Castara’s smirk and Rhea’s laser-focused stare, as if she were watching a rare, mysterious creature about to reveal its secrets.

He cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly, trying to ignore the fact that Rhea was probably filing away everything about him into some secret, highly classified "Callabassas Dossier."

"Uh… yeah," he finally muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, feathers ruffling slightly. "It’s been… different here. But, like, good different? I think?"

He gestured vaguely around, as if that explained anything at all. "The city’s… bigger than I expected. And, um, your house is kinda… really intimidating? But, like, in a cool way. It’s like walking into some kind of—uh—cathedral? A temple?" He trailed off, realizing he was rambling.

His claws tapped against the strap of his bag, before he hesitated.

"Oh, right!" he blurted, suddenly remembering something. "I, uh—I actually brought something from Dunemire. I mean, I only have one, so—"

He reached into his satchel, rummaging for a second before pulling out a small, smooth ocarina. The ceramic was worn, but polished, painted in deep reds and golds—Dunemire’s colors, but faded with age.

He turned it over in his claws, before holding it out. "It’s not, like, super fancy or anything," he admitted, glancing at them.

He gave a sheepish shrug, watching for their reactions, especially Rhea’s, whose gaze had now gone from "hawk-like observation" to something way more intense.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Castara watched Callabassas—not with Rhea’s eager excitement, but with the cool, assessing gaze of someone always calculating, always observing. Her sharp golden eyes flicked from the ocarina to his face, noting every feather twitch and awkward shift with mild interest. Not judgment, not awe—just curiosity, tempered and precise.

She stepped away from the window, her movements measured, composed, like she’d already decided the pace of the conversation. A smirk tugged at the edge of her lips.

"We should show you some of our secret hideouts in the estate," she offered, her voice smooth, confident. "Our parents aren’t the only ones who hide in the shadows." Her tone was playful, a dry tease—but there was truth behind it. Mischief was a shared family trait, after all.

Her gaze dropped to the ocarina as he held it out, her brows lifting slightly. "Oh wow," she said, stepping closer, though she kept her distance. She eyed the ceramic with interest, tilting her head. "That’s cool. I’ve never seen one like that. Our grandpa Jasper plays instruments too, but nothing like this. He’d probably love it." A beat. "Unless you’re terrible at it. Then maybe don’t show him just yet."

She glanced up at Callabassas again, her expression unreadable for a moment before softening into a sly smile. "Are you good? Or bad? Don’t lie—I’ll know. But I don’t think you’re the type to give up when it gets hard." She stepped back, giving him space. "You should play it. I want to see if it sounds like a dying crow or an actual song."

There was no malice in her tone—just dry humor, the kind that didn’t need to shout to be heard.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Callabassas blinked at Castara, caught somewhere between flattered and mildly intimidated—though, to be fair, that was just his default setting around her. She had this way of talking that made it seem like she already knew everything about you, like she had already decided what kind of person you were before you even had the chance to prove it.

His claws brushed over the ocarina, feeling the smooth weight of it in his palm. Bad? He wasn’t bad. But he wasn’t exactly great either.

He huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. "I can play it," he said, rolling his eyes, though there was warmth behind it. "Not, like, anything amazing, but I promise it won’t sound like a dying crow. Probably."

Rhea was still watching him like he was the most interesting thing in the world. She was too invested.

Castara, on the other hand, was watching him like a test. Like she was waiting to see if he’d prove himself useful or entertaining.

Great. No pressure.

Callabassas lifted the ocarina to his beak, inhaled once, then pressed his fingers over the holes with practiced familiarity. He played a simple, wandering melody—something soft, something slow.

It wasn’t grand. It wasn’t perfect. But it was steady.

The notes curled into the air, light and easy, carrying through the room as he exhaled into the instrument. He played for a few moments, the melody lingering—

And then, just as the sound began to fade, something else joined it.


A distant, mechanical clank.

Then another.

And another.

Callabassas’ fingers faltered slightly on the ocarina. His ears twitched.

"What was that?" Rhea spoke first, tilting her head toward the window.

The air seemed to shift.

The clicking, the grinding—it sounded like gears, like something big, something being wound up. Like the slow crank of a machine in an amusement park before the inevitable drop.

Except this wasn’t a game.

The ground itself seemed to hold its breath.

Then—

A deep, resonating boom shook the air.


The walls of Umbrafane roared with an impact so forceful it rattled the glass of the windows. The ground beneath them trembled, the sound of splintering stone and cracking mortar ripping through the evening calm.

Callabassas shot up from his seat, heart hammering. His feathers bristled, his claws tightening around the ocarina before he caught himself.

Another sound followed—not the same mechanical cranking, but something worse.

A wail. Low, eerie, reverberating through the city like a warning. Like a presence.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Castara froze at the sound, her body going rigid as the wail echoed through the walls like a living thing. Her ears pinned back, hooves shifting instinctively, uncertain whether to run or stand still. She glanced sharply at Callabassas, eyes flicking to the ocarina in his hands as if it might’ve summoned the noise—but she knew better.

Her gaze snapped to Rhea, the familiar comfort of her sister’s presence suddenly crucial. Without a word, Castara moved closer, her posture tense, protective, hovering just within reach. She didn’t speak—couldn’t—but her eyes said what her lips couldn’t: Where are they? Her parents. Wrath and Vengeance. She needed them here—now.

---

Mordecai halted mid-step as the ground trembled beneath him, the deep resonance of the boom cutting through the chamber like a blade. His ears pinned flat against his head, his hackles rising, tail bristling like a storm gathering in his spine. For a heartbeat, there was only silence in him—listening, calculating.

Silvano let out a sharp breath, his ears twitching. “Well, well… sounds like—an adventure?” he offered with a nervous grin, voice light but edged with unease.

Mordecai didn’t answer. He shot Silvano a glance, sharp as glass—no words needed. Then, without hesitation, he bolted for the door, hand firm on his cane. Silvano followed in a blur of motion, coat trailing behind him like a shadow. They cleared the hall in seconds, the courtyard looming ahead—dark, uncertain.

---

Riversong’s breath caught mid-conversation, her body going still as the vibrations ran up through the ground and into her bones. The sound—the wail—sent her heart lurching in her chest. Her hand lifted instinctively to rest over it, her fingers pressing hard as she looked to Ephraim, eyes sharp.

“What was that?” she asked, though her voice was quiet, strained, the question already half-answered by the dread curling in her gut.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Brisance the Starling – The Conductor of Cataclysm​

Chronosphere of Origin: Parece​

Current Status: 2nd Council Member of Poise​

Affiliation: Harlekin​

Ability:
Brisance’s ability, The Mocking Pyre, is a twisted, corrupted fragment of Wrath’s original devastation—fractured, refined, and orchestrated into something far crueler. Unlike Wrath’s raw, immediate obliteration, Brisance spreads his destruction in echoes, in ripples, in creeping inevitability. His starlings, eerie and unnatural, act as both his carriers and his instruments, surging forward in flocks that seem almost natural—until their bodies contort, their hollow eyes glow, and their very forms become living bombs.

The horror isn’t just in the explosions. It’s in the anticipation. The birds mock. Their calls twist into warped, distorted mimicries of the voices of those they are about to destroy. Laughter, sobs, whispered names. They taunt in the voices of the fallen, of the dying, of familiar figures long gone. The last thing many hear before the detonation is their own voice crying out in warning, turned against them.

And then, the sound.

The cranking, metallic whine of tension building. Like the slow, agonizing pull of a mechanical lift ascending higher, higher—until it stops. The silence just long enough to make the breath catch, the stomach drop. And then—

Detonation.

The explosion itself is not instant, not merciful. It does not simply end. The flock does not explode all at once. They chain-react, one after the other, rolling out destruction in waves, making the sound stretch, stretch, stretch until it feels endless. The impact is deafening, but the worst part is the aftermath—because even when the flames clear, the air still rings with the ghosts of their calls. The echoes of their last, false words. A sound that lingers in the ears long after the city is in ruins.

---

The History Between Wrath and Brisance – A Symphony of Betrayal​

The first explosion wasn’t what killed Parece—it was the second. Or the third. Or the hundredth.

By the time Wrath realized what Brisance truly was, the Chronosphere had already been burning.

Brisance the Starling was never a soldier, never a warlord, never a force of nature that could be contained. He was an event, a crescendo of destruction that swept across Parece like a symphony of carnage, every explosion orchestrated like a movement in a grand piece only he could hear. The city streets? Turned to ash. The rivers? Choked with the wreckage of what once stood. Every monument that spoke of gods, of rulers, of stability—obliterated in a flurry of blood and fire, leaving behind only a mocking birdsong, a mimicry of screams and laughter in the voices of the starlings that followed him like a living storm.

And it all began with a lie.

The Deal with Wrath​

Wrath had seen many who craved power. Most sought it in brute force, in domination. They wanted to be kings, executioners, warlords—they wanted a crown or a throne.
Brisance was different.

He wanted a stage.

When Wrath found him, he had already begun the first movement—small detonations, craters that carved scars into Parece’s landscape. He spoke of purpose, of how Wrath’s power needed something new, something grander than war. And Wrath—tired, battle-worn, alone—listened. For the first time in the entire Chronosphere, he considered the idea of giving someone else the fire.

And Brisance? He tricked him.
The deal was struck—Wrath, ever the embodiment of destruction, agreed to pass on his power. Not fully. Not a vessel. A fragment. A gift. He would not possess Brisance, but he would share his fire, grant him the infernal rage of Wrath without the chains of its will.

For the first time in history, Wrath had allowed himself to be outplayed.

Brisance took the fire—and ran.

The Massacre of the Seven​

Parece had once known balance. The Seven Deadly Sins—embodiments of vices, given shape, given power—had ruled in opposition to the Virtues, ensuring the world never tipped too far in either direction. Mercy was the one they had imprisoned, a reminder of what happened when balance broke.

Brisance ended that balance.

He did not challenge the Seven. He did not declare war. He simply removed them.

One by one, he orchestrated their deaths—not in combat, not in grand duels of strength, but in explosions so precise, so absolute, that even their souls struggled to reform.

• Gluttony’s great halls of indulgence? Reduced to rubble while its lord was still feasting.
• Pride’s towering citadel? Crumbled from the inside out.
• Sloth never even had the chance to wake up.

The Seven fell, their power shattered and scattered, and for the first time, Wrath was alone.

Until Wrath himself was next.

The Betrayal & The Hunt​

It started with a single note. A birdsong that wasn’t quite real.

Wrath turned. And then—

Fire. Everywhere.
Brisance had studied him, learned him. He had timed his detonations so precisely that Wrath couldn’t reform fast enough before the next explosion shredded through him again.
Six times. Six times Wrath burned and returned, only to be obliterated again.

It was the first time in any cycle that Wrath had been cornered. That he had been prey.

And Brisance loved it.

He sang through the wreckage, let his birds mimic Wrath’s own roars of pain, let them repeat back the things Wrath had said to him before the betrayal. Every explosion was mockery. Every collapse was rehearsed.

Until Wrath broke Mercy free.
And then?

Then the song changed.

With Mercy freed, the tides turned. Where Wrath burned without care, Mercy cut with purpose.

They hunted him together.
Brisance fled, tried to change the rhythm, but for the first time he was outplayed. He detonated cities, collapsed mountains, tried to shake them off his trail, but Wrath and Vengeance never stopped coming.
His final performance was not grand. Not a spectacle.

It was silent.
A hand—Wrath’s—closed around him, pulling him into the void of his own eternal rage. His birds screamed, the mocking laughter of a thousand voices rang out—

And then, silence.
Parece was gone.

Brisance was gone.

---

Present Day – The Return​

Standing before the broken walls of Umbrafane, Brisance the Starling stretches his arms wide.
"How delightful," his voice layers over itself, as if multiple voices are speaking at once—some his, some stolen from memories long forgotten. "To see this city stand. To see you build."

The starlings swirl around him, their mocking cries filling the air—some mimicking Umbrafane’s citizens, others screaming like the dying.

 

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Ephraim didn’t answer with words—she didn’t have to. Her body moved before thought could catch up, before logic could unravel the sickening weight settling in her stomach. That sound. That wail—unnatural, stretched thin with something both alive and wrong.

Her violet eyes flashed, sharp with urgency as she turned on her heel, her voice cutting through the garden’s hush like a blade.

She ran.

The stone paths of the estate blurred beneath her feet as she pushed forward, her breath steady, controlled—until she saw the sky.

From the open courtyard, she could see past the walls, beyond the rooftops of Umbrafane, where fire and shadow met in terrible bloom. Smoke curled unnaturally, thick, curling back on itself in twisted patterns.

But she didn’t stop to take in the scene—there was no time.

Her daughters. Callabassas.

She tore through the halls, past stunned attendants who had yet to even process the quake beneath their feet. As she neared the children’s quarters, the heavy doors already slightly ajar, she called out—firm, unwavering.

"Castara! Rhea!"

She pushed the doors open fully, her breath hitching in relief the moment her eyes landed on them. Safe. Castara stood, sharp and alert, already placing herself between Rhea and the doorway. Good. Smart. Prepared. Callabassas was tense, his golden eyes wide, his feathers bristled, but unharmed.

Ephraim didn’t waste a second. She moved toward them swiftly, crouching down to their height, one hand resting on Rhea’s shoulder, the other lightly gripping Castara’s arm.

"Are you hurt?" Her voice was steady—strong—but there was no mistaking the urgency behind it.

The deep rumble of another distant detonation vibrated through the stone, shaking the floor beneath them. The distant, wailing cries of something inhuman rang out again, warping through the air like a sickening hymn.

Ephraim knew that sound.

Harlekin.

Her grip tightened, just slightly.

"Listen to me," she said, low, direct. "Stay together. Do not leave this room unless I or your father come for you. Do you understand?"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Castara stood frozen for a moment longer, her chest rising and falling too fast, the echoes of the blast still ringing in her ears. Her mother’s voice cut through the noise, grounding her. She clung to Ephraim’s arm, shaking her head, her voice tight.

“We’re not hurt,” she managed—half reassurance, half disbelief, like she couldn’t quite believe it herself.

Her eyes lifted, wide and frightened, but she focused on Ephraim, forcing herself to breathe, to listen. “Okay. We understand.” Her words were firm, even if her body trembled.

That was when Riversong appeared in the doorway, her breaths shallow but steady as she leaned briefly against the frame, gathering herself. Her eyes swept over the children—safe. Her gaze met Ephraim’s.

“Go,” she said, voice low, unwavering. “Get to Mordecai. I’ll stay with them.” She stepped into the room, her hand settling lightly on Castara’s shoulder with calm assurance, her other reaching for Rhea.

“I’ve got them,” she murmured. “Go.”

---

“Get down!” Mordecai’s voice snapped like a whip as he grabbed Silvano and yanked him low, the two ducking behind the corner just as the explosion ripped through stone and air.
Debris rained down, dust choking the air as they crouched, coughing, not injured—but shaken. Silvano muttered a curse, half-laughing, half-horrified.

Mordecai was already moving.

He stood, stepping out from behind the wall, into the haze—and faced it.

The Harlekin.

The air felt wrong. Twisted. Mocking. The voices—the echoes—they pierced through him, but not with fear. Not anymore.

Wrath burned in his veins.

His breath came ragged at first, then steadied into something far colder, controlled. His crimson eyes flared, a sharp glow searing across the smoke—then a third eye opened, blazing like an inferno above his brow.

Wrath’s eye.

Mordecai’s fur bristled, his horns crackling with volatile energy, his tail stiff and lashing. His claws flexed, sharpened, ready. When he spoke, it was with ice and fire both—calculated, cruel, and precise.

“How marvelous.” His voice cut through the chaos like broken glass. “To see you crawl from your hiding hole, even if it’s behind those gaudy, pathetic masks.”

He stepped closer, his silhouette stark against the ruined wall. “It’s been too long, hasn’t it?”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Brisance the Starling stood at the heart of the ruin he had made, the fractured wall behind him still crumbling at the edges, ember-hot from the blast. His posture was relaxed, loose—a mockery of ease, as though he had not just torn through Umbrafane’s defenses with a song of ruin.

He lifted a single hand, palm up. A flutter of black, a ripple of movement, and a single starling materialized in his grasp. Its tiny form quivered, jittering unnaturally, its beady eyes reflecting the red glow of Mordecai’s rage. Its chest swelled—too large, too strained—like a ticking bomb.

The sound came first.

The whine of something winding too tight, too fast. A mechanical crank, an unnatural ratchet of bones that should not be. It echoed from the bird, from him, from the very air itself. The harlekin’s presence did not just exist—it warped the world, bending the air with that terrible, spiraling tension.

Then, Brisance grinned.

“It has been too long.” His voice was like smoke, smooth but crackling at the edges, touched by embers of old amusement. “Though I do wonder, Wrath, do you ever tire of watching your cities fall?”

He tilted his head slightly, rolling his fingers, making the bird twitch and jerk upon his palm. Its little feet clicked against his skin like clockwork.

“I don’t.”

And then she stepped forward.

Katya.

Silent as the creeping hush that follows an explosion. The 1 burned into her mask was stark, undeniable—a fresh mark, a new name. And she did not hesitate.

The instant Mordecai’s gaze flickered toward her, she moved, making a dart to run past them.

Brisance laughed—bright, delighted—as his free hand snapped forward, sending the starling darting toward Mordecai, its tiny body pulsing, screeching with that same horrible winding noise—

Tick. Tick. Tick.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s muscles coiled, fur bristling, claws flexing as the adrenaline surged—hot, heavy, coursing through every nerve like wildfire. Katya.

His eyes snapped to her, crimson flaring, that third burning eye above flashing with Wrath’s fury.

Last time, she had left him broken—cracked bones, shattered pride, swallowed by fear. But not now.

Now, Wrath stood with him.

No more running. No more fear.

Only vengeance.

As Katya darted forward, trying to slip through, Brisance’s starling launched—tiny, unnatural, shrieking with that awful, winding tick, tick, tick.

Mordecai didn’t flinch. He bared his fangs in a grim smile, his voice rising in a harsh snarl as he drove his claws into the earth, tearing his arms upward.

“You will not pass.”

Shadow erupted from the ground, flaming with Wrath’s essence—black fire and crimson light forming a wall of searing energy. The barrier roared to life.

Then—a voice.

“Hold the line!”

Eryon’s heavy hooves thundered behind Mordecai, the Captain of the Guard arriving with battle axe in hand, his eyes locked on the chaos before them.

The hole in the wall.

The harlekin.

Eryon’s face hardened. No hesitation. No room for doubt.

He turned to the ranks of donkeykin warriors surging behind him—stone-faced, weapons ready.

“Form the front. Shields up. Nothing breaches this line!” His voice cracked like thunder. “Umbrafane stands today.”

The donkeykin roared in unison, shields raised, flanking Mordecai in formation.

 

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Both rolls will be PASS or Fail with no modifiers to determine narrative.​

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Katya’s Bypass Attempt​

Katya vs. Donkeykin Formation (Roll goes to ThieviusRaccoonus , 1d10 for Eryon)

• Pass (6-10) – Katya moves like a phantom, slipping past the shield wall in a blur of motion. Before the guards can react, she is through, vanishing into the streets of Umbrafane.
• Fail (1-5) – A donkeykin intercepts, reacting just in time to halt her momentum. She is delayed, momentarily forced into a direct confrontation instead of a clean escape.

Absorption of Brisance’s Exploding Starling (Roll goes to ThieviusRaccoonus , 1d10 for Mordecai)​

Mordecai/Wrath vs. Starling Explosion

• Pass (6-10) – Wrath’s shadows fully absorb the explosion, nullifying the blast entirely. The force is consumed into the black flames, leaving only a scorched mark in its wake. Mordecai remains unharmed, the line holds.
• Fail (1-5)– The explosion partially bypasses the shadows, sending concussive force through the air. Mordecai is knocked back slightly, the impact rattling him and giving Brisance a moment of advantage.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Dice rolls placeholder

 

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Brisance’s fingers curled, his smirk widening as the little starling trembled in his palm, its chest rising and falling in rapid, unnatural bursts. It ticked. Louder. Louder.

And then—silence.

The bird dove, its wings a blur of shadowed energy as it shrieked its horrible, warped, wendigo-cry. Tick, tick, tick—

Then—nothing.

Brisance’s smirk faltered. The moment the starling touched the barrier of Wrath’s shadows, the explosion that should have split stone and flesh alike simply… vanished. Sucked into the void, consumed by the living darkness like it had never existed at all.

His sharp eyes narrowed.

“Oh, that’s just rude.” His voice was airy, amused—but there was an edge to it now, a flicker of something between irritation and fascination. “Wrath, Wrath, Wrath—you still have all your little tricks, don’t you?”

But he wasn’t the only one with tricks.

Katya moved.

Brisance didn’t even need to look at her to know—he felt it, the shift in the air, the momentary flicker of presence before she was simply gone.

The donkeykin were slow. Heavy. They relied on formation, on bracing, on anticipation. But Katya? Katya didn’t give them time to react.

Her body blurred through the openings—one movement, two, three—each step calculated to keep her just out of reach, weaving through their gaps before they even knew she was there. A flicker of white, the glint of a mask, and then—

Past them.

Brisance grinned as he heard the frustrated roar behind them, the clamor of donkeykin turning too late, their shields s Posthifting just a fraction behind where she had been.

He let out a low whistle.

“Oh, dear.” He pressed a hand to his chest in mock sympathy. “And just like that—she’s gone.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Eryon’s breath hitched, teeth gritting as Katya shot past their line—a blur of motion that left nothing but the clang of shifting shields and frustrated roars in her wake. She was gone. Slipped through them like smoke.

But they weren’t alone.

His gaze snapped upward—Silvano, perched high on the rooftop like some impish gargoyle, watching it all unfold with a grin that suggested he’d been waiting for just such a moment. Eryon didn’t need to speak. He met Silvano’s eyes, gave a sharp nod—a silent command, a plea.

Silvano’s grin widened.

“Ohhh no,” he murmured to himself, wagging a finger in mock chastisement. “Tearing through dear Eryon’s defense? Tsk, tsk… shameful behavior.” He blew a kiss toward the chaos below, then gave Eryon a theatrical wave. Message received.

And then—he was gone.

Sliding down the shingles in a controlled swoop, Silvano leapt rooftop to rooftop, a streak of movement against the city’s darkened skyline. Umbrafane’s rooftops were his domain. He knew every chimney, every gutter, every forgotten path above the streets—and he moved with the practiced grace of someone born to vanish.

He didn’t strike yet. No, no—he watched. Tracking Katya’s path, reading her choices, darting ahead via shortcuts only he knew. Let her run. Let her believe. The fun was in the chase.

---

Below, Mordecai’s red eyes never left Brisance.

Katya had slipped through. Annoying. But irrelevant. There were bigger things here.

“You’re right,” Mordecai said coldly, stepping forward, the third eye on his brow glowing with an eerie, burning pulse. “She got through.”

His lip curled, fangs flashing.

“I’m glad even you can make the most basic of observations. Though I suppose it’s hard to think clearly when you’ve spent so long festering in someone else’s shadow.”

The words hit like daggers, sharp and venom-laced.

“And yet—you’re still here.” His voice dropped lower, heavy with wrath’s fury, each word like a nail driven into the earth.

With a sharp motion, Mordecai swung his cane over his shoulder, the metal of its haft gleaming as its bayonet shot forth with a hiss. The eyes along its length pulsed, and he slashed it through the air, summoning a coiled whip of shadowy essence that cracked toward Brisance like a serpent, the force behind it enough to split stone.

No more running. Not from them. Not from Wrath.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

DIFFICULTY TABLE for MORDECAI
1-3 (30%) Failure – Brisance evades with speed, shifting back just before impact, the force of the whip cracking the ground where he stood. He taunts Mordecai, already preparing his next explosive counterattack.
4-9 (60%) Success – The shadow whip slashes across Brisance, striking him hard and sending him skidding backward. Wrath’s energy burns across his form, disrupting his focus momentarily.
10 (10%) Stalemate – Just as the whip closes in, Brisance flicks his wrist, sending a starling surging forward. The two forces collide mid-air, the explosion and shadow canceling each other out in a violent clash of energy, neither gaining ground.

---

Katya ran like a ghost through the city.

The moment she slipped past the line, she didn't hesitate—her body moved on instinct, her mind already charting the fastest route, the clearest paths. Umbrafane was unfamiliar to her feet, but not to her understanding. She had studied. She had prepared. She knew exactly where she was going.

Mordecai’s home.

She could feel it in her bones—that pull, that anchor of Wrath and Vengeance. The very essence of the city bled toward them, all roads seemingly drawn to their doorstep, like veins pulsing toward a beating heart.

Good.

The air cut sharp against her mask, the thick scent of burning stone and chaos fading behind her as she weaved through the city streets. Umbrafane was not built for easy passage—its narrow corridors and towering architecture worked against outsiders. But Katya wasn’t an outsider anymore.

Her body twisted, leaping onto a low stack of crates, then up onto a hanging awning—her foot barely kissed the fabric before she kicked off again, vaulting onto a balcony railing, flipping over it with barely a breath. She landed without a sound, boots scraping softly against the worn stone.

She moved like ink spilled over a page—flowing, shifting, never stopping.

Then—something.

A prickle at the back of her neck.

She didn’t look. Didn’t turn. But she felt it.

She was being tracked.