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

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Silvano crouched low on the edge of the rooftop, his tail flicking behind him with gleeful anticipation. The jagged spires and narrow alleys of Umbrafane were no hindrance to him—no, this was his stage, his personal playground. The cluttered rooftops, with their mismatched shingles and precarious ledges, might’ve daunted anyone else.

But not him.

High above, he spotted her—a flicker of white, a streak of motion. Katya. Moving fast. Too fast for most eyes to follow, but not his. His grin widened, sharp and vulpine, as he leaned casually against a squat, metal-bound barrel at his side.

“Poor dear,” he murmured, amusement laced in every syllable, mocking sympathy dripping from his tone. “So very swift. So very determined. And yet…”

He pried the lid open with a dramatic flourish, peering inside. Thick, viscous tar, black as the void and twice as stubborn. Not lethal—but oh, how wonderfully inconvenient. He gave it a testing stir with a clawed finger before gripping the barrel’s rim, tail curling with excitement.

“…so very predictable.”

With a grunt and a showman’s flair, Silvano heaved the barrel over the ledge, tipping it just as Katya passed below.

The sticky flood of tar sloshed out in a heavy curtain, pouring downward in a slow, deliberate sheet—not just to stop her, but to mock her speed, to force her into a choice.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Brisance barely had time to react.

The coiled whip of shadow struck with the force of a thunderclap—black fire and crimson light lashing across the battlefield. It cracked against his chest, the impact sending him flying backward, his body twisting mid-air before slamming into the fractured remains of the wall.

Stone crumbled beneath him.

The air left his lungs in a sharp wheeze, his head snapping back against the rubble. For a moment, the world rang—the shrieking of his own birds momentarily drowned by the sheer, unrelenting force of Wrath made manifest.

Brisance’s claws dug into the broken stone as he steadied himself, head tilting up, a wry, breathless laugh rasping from his throat.

Then—his fingers snapped.

The air howled.

From the skies, from the jagged crevices of broken buildings, from the unseen cracks in reality itself, they came.

The starlings.

Ripping through the air like razor-edged wraiths, their sleek, iridescent bodies shimmered with sickly hues, their feathers warping, pulsing, as if caught in an unholy in-between of existence. They wailed—a sound that was not birdlike at all. No, this was something older. Something wretched.

Some shrieked in mockery, perfect imitations of battle cries and desperate prayers.

Others released that awful winding click, the tick, tick, tick of something winding down to detonation.

Brisance simply raised his hand.

He pointed.

Like a conductor guiding an orchestra of ruin.

First, at Eryon.

Then, at the donkeykin ranks—the very core of Umbrafane’s defenses.

And finally—at Mordecai himself.

---

Difficulty Tables:

Mordecai (1d10)​

• 1-2: The starling detonates directly in front of him, sending him skidding backward, momentarily dazed.
• 3-4: The explosion strikes near his legs, forcing him to shift and absorb part of the blast.
• 5-6: The blast fails to knock him back, but disrupts his focus, preventing an immediate counter.
• 7-8: Partial absorption—he mitigates most of the explosion with Wrath’s shadow barrier.
• 9-10: Full absorption—the shadow barrier devours the explosion completely, sending the energy back at Brisance.

Eryon (2d10, take higher)​

• 1-2: Direct hit to his chest, leaving him burned and staggered.
• 3-4: The explosion scorches him, burning fur and skin, forcing him onto one knee momentarily.
• 5-6: Grazed by the blast—he takes damage, but remains standing and able to fight.
• 7-8: The explosion barely clips him, his armor absorbing most of the impact.
• 9-10: He dodges or deflects the starling entirely, escaping unscathed.

Donkeykin Forces (1D10)​

• 1-2: 50% of the forces are obliterated in the blast, bodies thrown as fire and shrapnel tear through them.
• 3-4: 40% casualties, shields and armor are not enough to withstand the sheer force.
• 5-6: 30% casualties, formations break slightly but some survive due to quick reactions.
• 7-8: 20% casualties, those in front bear the brunt of it while others hold the line.
• 9-10: 10% or less casualties, the donkeykin brace and hold firm, surviving the worst of it.

---

Katya’s Escape Roll – Silvano’s Tar Ambush (D10 Difficulty Table) [Katya Roll]​

Katya has one moment to react—whether to dodge, maneuver, or push forward through the mess. The outcome depends on how fast she processes the trap and how much the tar impedes her.

Results:​

• 1-2: Direct Hit – The tar completely drenches her, weighing down her limbs and sticking her boots to the ground. She’s immobilized, utterly at Silvano’s mercy.
• 3-4: Severely Hindered – The tar coats her legs and arms, slowing her significantly. She’s not stuck, but her speed is massively reduced, making escape nearly impossible.
• 5-6: Partial Escape – She twists away just in time, but her foot or sleeve catches some of the tar, making movement more sluggish. She loses valuable time.
• 7-8: Minimal Contact – The tar barely grazes her, a few specks hitting her shoulder or boot, but she remains mostly unhindered—however, Silvano is now directly on her tail.
• 9-10: Complete Evasion – She fully anticipates the ambush and dodges cleanly, vaulting over the spill or rolling away with acrobatic finesse. She gains distance on Silvano, forcing him to chase.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Katya twisted mid-step, eyes widening as the thick black wave of tar sloshed toward her. She almost dodged it—almost. But as she launched herself forward, her heel clipped the outer edge of the spill, and a cold, sticky weight clung to her boot.

The moment her foot hit the cobblestone, she staggered, her movement hitching as the tar dragged. It wasn’t enough to stop her, not completely, but it stole her momentum—turned what had been a full sprint into an awkward, uneven lurch.

Her balance adjusted, but the damage was done.

Katya bit back a curse, her breath hitching as she shook off the excess tar as best she could, but the weight of it still clung to her boot, forcing her to compensate for every step. She was still moving—still running—but not nearly fast enough.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai – Roll 1 (Direct Hit, Dazed)
The starling struck inches from Mordecai’s chest, the explosion detonating with a thunderous roar. Shadow flared—but too late. The blast flung him back, slamming his body into the stone, his breath ripped from him in a guttural snarl. Dust clouded the air, his vision swimming, ears ringing as he struggled to rise—momentarily dazed, rage burning hot and wild in his chest.

Eryon – Roll 10 (Unscathed)
Eryon’s sharp eyes caught the glint of the bird moments before detonation. With practiced grace, he pivoted, axe raised, using its thick shaft to deflect the blast’s edge. The explosion erupted harmlessly behind him, the shockwave rippling past as he surged forward, untouched—unyielding.

Donkeykin Forces – Roll 5 (30% Casualties, Formation Breaks)
The blast tore through the front ranks, donkeykin soldiers sent flying, armor scorched and shields shattered. Screams cut through the smoke, the line buckling—but not collapsing. Those behind braced, reforming around the wounded, grim resolve steeling their stance as the front was reduced to charred rubble and flame.

---

Silvano’s grin widened as he spotted the tightly strung clothesline stretching across the staggered rooftops below—a line still heavy with laundry fluttering in the wind, cloaks and shirts swaying like flags of opportunity.

From his higher perch, he tracked Katya’s slowed sprint with sharp, calculating eyes. She was heading straight for it. Perfect.

With a nimble bound, he hopped onto the angled roof edge, feet finding sure grip, his tail flicking behind him for balance. Then, with a showman’s flair, he dropped low, gripping the clothesline with both paws.

Silvano let his weight hang off the line, causing it to stretch taut—the colorful laundry sagging with him—before he yanked it downward with force, timing it just right as Katya approached the open alley below.

The line snapped into place like a taut tripwire, slashing through the air at mid-torso height, aimed squarely at her stomach with enough force to knock the wind out of her—or at least stop her dead in her tracks.

And with his signature toothy grin, hanging upside down from the line, Silvano chimed gleefully,
"Mind your step! It’s laundry day!"

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The thunder of hooves split through the chaos.

Through the dust and blood-soaked air, the unmistakable clang of steel against steel rang out—a sound of discipline, of power, of order imposed upon disorder. The Dunemire Cavalry had arrived.

Karn rode at the head, her gilded armor catching the dim light, crimson cloak billowing behind her like the unfurled wings of some vengeful deity. Her expression was a mask of iron, but there was something cold and measured in her eyes—calculation, not sympathy.

This was not rescue.

This was not mercy.

This was control.

Behind her, Eoghan rode with practiced ease, his bow slung across his back, his sharp, raptor-like gaze cutting through the battlefield. His mount, a towering war-beast—part dinosaur, part destrier—let out a guttural, bone-shaking roar, snapping its serrated teeth in the direction of the burning rubble. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

The formation was precise. Tight, unyielding, efficient.

They weren’t here to scatter. They were here to sandwich Brisance in.

A perfect, tactical maneuver—wall to his back, steel to his front.

Karn barely spared a glance toward the struggling donkeykin forces. Her eyes were already locked on the real threat.

Brisance.

The Starling.

The one who dared to bring chaos to her doorstep.

Her hand lifted. A silent signal.

The cavalry halted as one, their golden shields slamming into the ground in perfect sync, forming a near-impenetrable wall of gleaming metal and brute strength; opposite of Eryon's. The ground beneath them trembled with the sheer weight of their presence.

---

Ephraim ran like death was at her heels.

She was fast—not just from raw physicality, but from purpose. Her violet eyes burned as she tore through the streets, her long coat snapping behind her, the chill of the night air biting at her fur. The city was under siege. And she knew exactly who had gotten past them.

Behind her, Buzz kept pace—barely. The Beekin was shorter, stockier, her powerful wings twitching with the need to take flight, but she stayed on foot, knowing that air exposure was too risky with Harlekin prowling. Instead, she sprinted, her clawed feet scraping against the cobblestones as she clutched a wicked-looking polearm in her grip.

“—What are we looking at?!” Buzz puffed out, voice clipped, her second pair of arms flexing in anticipation of a fight.

Then—movement above.

Not one figure. Two.

Ephraim’s eyes snapped upward, tracking the shape of Katya, darting fast across the rooftops—fluid, methodical, too damn practiced. But above her—perched even higher, watching like a smug specter of mischief—was Silvano.

Oh, thank the gods.

The foxkin’s laugh was audible over the din of chaos—always too casual, too entertained, too self-satisfied.

"Mind your step! It’s laundry day!”

And then—he moved.

From his perch, Silvano yanked the clothesline low—the fabric still damp, heavy with water weight, cutting through the air like a well-placed tripwire—right in Katya’s path.

Ephraim didn’t hesitate. Didn’t slow.

She vaulted up a lower rooftop, her sword already flashing free from its sheath.

She didn’t need to ask.

She knew exactly what Silvano was pulling.

Ephraim lunged forward—Buzz following just behind, kicking off a nearby crate and climbing after her with an athletic burst of speed.

Katya was fast. But Ephraim was already there. Waiting. Ready.

The trap was set.

---

Katya’s muscles tensed as she saw the trap unfolding—Silvano’s grinning face above, the clothesline snapping taut, Ephraim already mid-lunge, blade gleaming in the moonlight. She didn’t have time to turn this into a drawn-out fight.

She needed space. She needed an opening.

Her hand shot out, fingers barely grazing the whipping fabric—and gold surged.

In a single heartbeat, the damp cloth transmuted into solid, gleaming weight, dragging down with sudden force. If Silvano didn’t drop it fast enough, it’d yank his grip from the rooftop or at least ruin his leverage.

More importantly, it gave her enough time to pivot.

---

Brisance rolled his shoulders, shaking off the sting from Mordecai’s attack. Annoying. But not enough to stop him.

The cavalry was forming up. Precise. Perfect. Organized.

It made him sick.

He lifted his hand, and the air warped with the movement.

The starlings around him screeched, their eerie, fragmented voices rising in unnatural harmony—not just birds, not just beasts, but echoes of stolen sound.

Then, Brisance whistled.

A high, sharp, almost playful note.

The starlings mimicked it instantly—but amplified.

The air erupted with sound.

The frequency blasted outward in a wave, an unnatural, stomach-churning resonance—not a traditional explosion, but something worse.

It was in their bones.

In their teeth.

The sheer force of it rattled the air, shaking metal, making Karn’s cavalry stumble, making horses rear back and shriek as the sound ricocheted off their armor like a thousand voices screaming at once. Shields clattered. Hooves scraped.

---

KATYA VS SILVANO

• 1-3: Total failure – The clothesline snaps under Katya’s influence, Silvano plummets off the rooftop, crashing into an awning or a pile of debris below. He is removed from the chase for at least a short time.
• 4-6: Slowed but still dangerous – The roof buckles beneath him, forcing him to scramble for another hold. He loses time and Katya gains distance, but he is not out of the chase.
• 7-9: Minimal effect – Silvano catches himself quickly, barely avoiding the crumbling gold-weakened rooftop. Katya does not gain any additional lead.
• 10: Complete counter – Silvano turns Katya’s own sabotage against her, predicting her movement and using the falling debris as a launch point, gaining on her.

---

D10 - Effects of Brisance’s Boom​

[ALL POV CHARACTER IN AREA ROLL D10]

• 1-2: Crippling Effect –
  • The blast hits full force, sending the character crashing into debris or the ground, momentarily incapacitated.
  • Severe temporary hearing loss—ringing ears, muffled sound, or temporary deafness.
  • Coordination is severely impaired—standing is difficult, attacking is nearly impossible without first regaining balance.
• 3-4: Staggered but Functional –
  • Thrown back but able to recover.
  • Their hearing is badly affected, making communication difficult for the next several minutes.
  • Combat effectiveness reduced—aiming, casting, or focusing is hindered.
• 5-7: Endures the Blast –
  • Not thrown, but forced to brace hard.
  • Ears are ringing but functional—discomfort, but still able to process speech.
  • Combat effectiveness is partially hindered but recoverable.
• 8-9: Minimal Effect –
  • Momentarily shaken but unphased.
  • Hearing is distorted but clears fast.
  • Can react immediately without major delay.
• 10: Total Resistance –
  • The character stands firm against the blast, fully withstanding its force.
  • No loss of balance, no hearing damage—pure defiance.
  • If Wrath-aligned, they absorb the energy partially, gaining a small burst of power

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

"Exit! Stage Left!" (1/session) Silvano is many things—a scoundrel, a charmer, a rogue of unparalleled wit—but one thing he is not is caught. Once per session, when trapped, cornered, or staring down certain doom, he may execute an escape so perfectly timed and absurdly smooth that it almost seems rehearsed. Through a mix of quick thinking, misdirection, and just a bit of inexplicable luck, he disappears from danger in the most theatrical way possible. A curtain falls at just the right moment, a cart rolls by at precisely the right speed, or a precariously stacked barrel topples at just the right angle to cause chaos—whatever happens, it seems like it was always meant to be.

As Katya’s touch turns the clothesline to solid gold, the weight yanks it violently downward, the golden fabric creaking and warping under the strain. Silvano’s eyes go wide for just a beat—then narrow, calculating. His grip loosens just enough to ride the collapsing line like a tightrope artist, sliding gracefully downward as the line dips toward a jutting balcony ledge below.

Mid-slide, he snaps a salute to Katya, his grin never wavering.

“Ladies and gentlemen…” he begins, the line buckling—“Exit! Stage Left!”

With impeccable timing, he vaults off the collapsing line, flipping through the air in a twist of cloak and tail, and lands perfectly on a rooftop chimney across the alley—just as the golden clothesline snaps and crashes behind him, showering the street in glittering debris.

He leans dramatically against the chimney, brushes off his coat, and points downward at Katya’s path—directly in front of Ephraim and Buzz’s approach.

“Curtains up, ladies,” he calls, “your lead’s arrived.”

Silvano stays perched above, ready to rejoin at a more strategic angle, his vantage point perfect for cover or disruption.

---

Mordecai – Roll: 4 (Staggered but Functional)​

The blast hit Mordecai like a hammer to the skull. His ears rang violently, the sound warping into a sickening whine as he staggered back, hand bracing against the cracked stone wall. Shadows flickered, pulsing erratically around him as Wrath’s influence surged in confusion. His vision doubled briefly, the din muting everything around him. He grit his teeth, eyes narrowing with fury as he fought to stay upright. Communication was a lost cause, but his gaze—sharp, venomous—never left Brisance. Wrath burned. And he was still standing.

---

Eryon – Roll: 5 (Endures the Blast)​

Eryon buckled but didn’t break. He dropped to one knee, his heavy axe slammed into the ground to brace himself as the unnatural sound ripped through his bones. His ears rang, his head spun, but he held. The noise dulled his senses—a dull roar in his ears, muffling shouts, orders, everything—but his eyes stayed clear, locked on Brisance. The Captain wasn’t falling. Not today. His grip tightened, rising back to his feet. He was slower. But still in the fight.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Katya didn’t even flinch at Silvano’s escape. She had expected nothing less—he was too slippery, too obnoxiously theatrical to die without making a spectacle of it. His little quips meant nothing to her, nor did the gold-drenched debris now glittering on the streets below.

What mattered was the opening.

Ephraim and Buzz were closing in, fast. The moment was narrow—one misstep, one second too late, and she’d lose her advantage.

So she didn’t hesitate.

With a sharp, fluid motion, Katya reached into the small pouch at her hip—a pouch lined with smooth, circular metal beads, innocuous at first glance. But the moment they left her palm, the moment they hit the open air—they turned to gold.

Weighted. Unforgiving. Deadly.

She twisted her wrist as she threw them, a precise flick of the fingers sending a shower of them forward in an arc, right into Buzz’s path.

The effect was instantaneous.

The small, light beads transformed mid-air—hardening, becoming dense, heavy as lead—and in the split second it took for them to fall, they became a storm of golden bullets.

A trap Ephraim could have dodged.

But Buzz?

She was airborne. She couldn’t change her course.

Katya – "Golden Storm" (D10 Difficulty Table)​

Katya’s attack determines how effective and efficient Buzz's death is. Higher rolls favor Buzz putting up some level of resistance, while lower rolls result in a swift and brutal execution.

• 1: Instant Overkill. The transformed gold slams into Buzz mid-air with such overwhelming force that her body is crushed on impact. She never even hits the ground intact—just a ruin of shattered chitin and gore. No last words. No struggle. Just death.
• 2-3: Brutal Finish. Buzz hits the ground already dying, her body broken beyond repair. Katya steps in and finishes her without effort, pressing down until she stops twitching.
• 4-6: Clean Kill. The impact is devastating, but Buzz lands in one piece. She is critically injured, barely able to move, and Katya executes her swiftly.
• 7-9: Buzz resists. The attack cripples her, but she still has fight left. She gasps out one final word or thought, trying to move, to resist, to defy—before Katya snaps her final breath from her.
• 10: Last Stand. Buzz does not die immediately. Though critically wounded, she drags herself up, refusing to go down without one final act. She has one last move, whether it’s an attempted attack, a warning to Ephraim, or a last insult toward Katya—before she finally collapses.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Buzz hit the ground hard, her breath ripping from her lungs as the golden shards dug into her chitin, the force of impact sending cracks spiderwebbing across her exoskeleton. Her second set of arms twitched—reflex, instinct, defiance—but her body was failing her.

Ephraim saw it all.

The sound of the golden storm hadn’t even finished ringing in her ears before she saw Buzz falter, saw the blood already seeping through her armor, saw the moment she realized she was dying.

Buzz’s mandibles twitched as she turned her head toward Ephraim, her wide, compound eyes flickering, trying to focus.

She was still trying to speak.

Still trying.

Ephraim staggered forward on instinct, sword half-raised, something raw and unspoken forming in her throat. Her mind hadn’t caught up yet, hadn’t fully accepted what had happened, but her body—her body already knew.

"Buzz!"

It was the first thing out of her mouth. Not a battle cry. Not an order. Just a name. A name that shouldn’t have been lost in a place like this. Not here. Not now.

But she was watching her die.

Buzz’s arms tried to push her up—weakly, feebly, stubbornly—but her body betrayed her. The exoskeleton along her abdomen was splintered, crushed in places that couldn’t be fixed. She wasn’t getting up.

And then, she did something Ephraim would never forget.

She grinned.

Buzz, bleeding out, suffocating in her own shell, broken and failing—she fucking grinned.

"Still… wasn't," she rasped, barely audible, her mandibles twitching in what might have been laughter. "Still wasn't ready..."

Ephraim felt her breath catch in her throat.

"Hold on," she started, knowing it was a lie. "Buzz, just—"

A sharp cough, dark blood spattering across the stone beneath her. No more words.

Her grin froze.

And she stilled.

Ephraim’s heart stopped.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The world snapped.

It shattered, cracked down the center, as Ephraim’s breath hitched—then tore itself from her throat in a scream that split the night.

It wasn’t human. It wasn’t mortal. It wasn’t meant to be heard.

It was Vengeance.

And it answered.

The air convulsed, warping like a heat mirage, as the ground beneath Ephraim’s feet fractured. The very weight of her presence twisted reality, drawing upon Wrath’s buried echoes—not his fury, but hers.

A thousand swords manifested in the space around her, glowing with spectral, violet fire.

They hung in the air like an executioner’s final decree, trembling, waiting, seeking.

Katya stumbled back. For the first time, for the first damn time since she had put on the mask, she felt it.

Doubt. The Harlekin did not feel fear. They were not meant to feel fear.

And yet—her hands shook.

The floating blades trembled once.

D10 Roll Outcomes:
10: Escapes mostly unscathed (barely)
8-9: Minor wounds, some slashes cut through
5-7: Several direct hits, injuries are significant
3-4: Deep wounds, torn clothing, staggered and unable to move easily
1-2: Brutal impalement. The swords rip through her, leaving her barely clinging to life.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The first blade sliced across her shoulder, the impact alone enough to send her reeling.

The second buried itself into her thigh, severing momentum, twisting her midair as she tried to leap away.

The third drove straight through her ribs.

Katya choked, gasped, coughed—a guttural sound as her breath hitched. The violet fire seared through her body like white-hot agony, an ethereal wound that burned deeper than steel ever could.

She lost her footing.

The world tilted, her vision blurring as her limbs failed her.

And then—

She fell.

The rooftop rushed away, stone and sky spinning wildly, weightless for half a breath—before her body crashed into the unforgiving ground below.

Hard.

Her back slammed against the cobblestone, pain splintering through her limbs, the impact ripping what little air she had left from her lungs.

Ephraim’s swords did not just cut.

They marked.

Katya tried to push herself up. Failed.

She wheezed, clawing at the ground, her body betraying her.

Move. Move. MOVE.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

MORDECAI POWER SURGE, NEXT ACTION IS ON HIM.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Silvano had been watching from above after his spectacular “Exit, Stage Left!” —a true performance, if he did say so himself. And now? The stage was set for the finale.

Oh, Lady Ephraim, a force of vengeance if ever there was one, had certainly given Katya the spotlight—and Katya had promptly face-planted into the cobblestones of defeat.

Silvano leaned over the rooftop ledge, that trademark foxy grin stretching wide across his face, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Well, well,” he purred, adjusting his coat with a theatrical flourish, “what a riveting act—but I’m afraid this little show’s hit its final curtain!”

He slid down the shingles like a seasoned performer hitting their final mark, landing with a graceful spin atop a crate, then bounding onto the stone railing just above Ephraim. He saluted with flair, giving her a low, exaggerated bow mid-run.

“Well done, my dear! Truly inspiring work!” he cheered, voice full of dramatic pomp. Then, eyes flicking to the crumpled form of Katya below, his tone shifted to playful warning—

“Look out below!”

With that, Silvano vaulted from the ledge, cape fluttering, and in a blink, produced a comically oversized wooden mallet—far too large to be practical, yet somehow perfectly balanced in his grip.

He descended with style—arms raised, mallet gleaming in the faint light, and with a resounding SLAM, he brought it down squarely onto Katya’s mask.

CRACK.

The sound echoed, sharp and final—the mask splintering apart beneath the force, pieces scattering like broken porcelain stars.

Silvano landed beside her, straightening up as if nothing had happened, dusting off his coat. He twirled the mallet once and slung it over his shoulder with a grin.

Then he tipped an imaginary hat, looked down at Katya’s shattered mask, and declared:

“Whew! What a smashing success!”

A beat.

“...Ten outta ten, no notes.”

---

Mordecai’s breath came sharp, fangs bared as the ringing in his ears gave way to something worse—laughter.

Brisance was still standing.

Still smirking.

Still breathing.

That alone was unacceptable.

And then it hit—the surge. A violent flare of power through his chest, through his limbs, through his very soul. Not foreign. Not alien. Familiar. Welcome.

Wrath rose within him—not overpowering, not consuming, but merging. Not a monster in the dark. An ally at his back.

Mordecai didn’t resist.

He commanded.

His mane flared, black strands igniting like embers in a storm. Shadow coiled around his arms, his claws, his horns, burning with a crimson fire, his third eye snapping open with a pulse of blinding red light.

The ground cracked beneath his hooves.

“ENOUGH!”

The word detonated in the air, sharp and venomous, both his voice and Wrath’s woven together, the snarl of judgment.

His shadow twisted, stretched—and rose. Wrath’s shape loomed behind him, massive, seething, formed of living flame and hatred, its arms outstretched like a judge at the gallows.

Mordecai slammed his hoof into the fractured ground.

The earth split.

Black flame erupted—not wild. Controlled. Directed. Purposeful.

The shadows shot forward, not just surrounding Brisance—but striking.

The first hit crashed against his chest—slamming him back, the force of it crushing bone and pride alike.

The second wrapped his leg—yanking him down, forcing him to his knees.

And the third—the third was Wrath’s hand, a spear of pure flame, streaking forward with impossible speed, striking his face.

The mask cracked.

For a heartbeat—silence.

Then—shatter.

The porcelain split with a sickening crack, pieces of it splintering away.

Mordecai stepped through the smoke, eyes blazing, voice low, cold, unshakable.

“I told you... I’m not afraid of you anymore.” And behind him, Wrath roared.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The force of Wrath’s strike sent Brisance crumbling, his body buckling beneath the weight of searing shadow and judgment.

He gasped—a choking, wet sound as the last remnants of his mask splintered away, porcelain shards falling like the remnants of a dying star. His face, at last, exposed.

He tried to grin. Tried to spit out some parting shot, some mockery of the gods themselves.

But his body was failing him.

Wrath’s essence tore through his core, hollowing him out like a structure set to detonate, leaving only the fragile remains of his existence standing.

Brisance exhaled.

And with that final breath, he whispered something.

Not to Mordecai. Not to Wrath.

To the birds.

A flicker of movement. A rustle of feathers.

And then—the sound.

A ticking. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy.

Not like the starlings before—sharp and eager, brimming with chaotic destruction. This was something else. Something that waited.

A single, swollen starling.



It did not disappear with him. Did not shatter into ash and essence.

It remained.

And it ticked.

Brisance’s smirk, weak as it was, still held.

And with his final breath, he laughed.

Low. Ragged. Triumphant.

---

As Brisance crumbles into nothingness, his laughter lingers—an echo of malice refusing to die. And then, it is revealed.

A grotesque, swollen starling, pulsing with unstable energy, lingers in the wake of his demise. It does not dissipate. It does not vanish. It sways in the air, engorged with explosive force, its eerie ticking growing faster—louder—unstoppable.

This is Brisance’s final spite, his parting gift, and it will detonate in seconds.

Mordecai, Wrath burns within you. Your shadows coil, waiting for your command. But can you stop it?

You must decide how to act— contain it completely or force it back toward Karn’s cavalry. The power is yours, but the risk is immense.

D10 Roll Outcomes:​

• 10-9 – Perfect Containment (20%)
  Mordecai’s control over Wrath’s shadows is absolute. The starling is fully enveloped before it can detonate, vanishing into a swirling void of black fire and raw energy. The explosion is neutralized completely—no casualties, no collateral damage.
• 8-2 – Redirection (70%)
  The bomb cannot be fully contained, but Wrath’s power surges through Mordecai’s veins, twisting the explosion away from Umbrafane. The blast is redirected—slamming back toward Karn’s forces with devastating force. Her cavalry is caught in the explosion, shields breaking, formations shattering as fire and concussive energy rip through them. Umbrafane is safe. Dunemire? Less so.
• 1 – Failed Containment (10%)
  The power is too volatile, too erratic—Mordecai miscalculates. The starling detonates before he can redirect it, sending a shockwave of devastation through the battlefield. Both sides suffer heavy damage, Umbrafane’s defenses take a severe hit, and Dunemire’s cavalry is crippled but not obliterated. The consequences will be dire.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Placeholder roll

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s body locked—tense, coiled, his breath caught in his throat.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Brisance’s final defiance hung in the air like a challenge—one last insult, one last threat—the grotesque starling swollen, pulsing, ready to tear the world apart.

Mordecai’s gaze narrowed.

No.

Not again.

They would not touch this city.

Not Umbrafane.

Not Ephraim.

Not his children.

Not ever again.

Shadows surged around him, Wrath’s essence roaring, licking up his arms in violent, jagged coils, the very ground beneath his hooves splitting, trembling beneath the weight of raw judgment.

And Wrath—Wrath laughed.

Not in joy.

In fury.

“They mock us? Then let them burn. Let them learn what it means to stand before Wrath and Vengeance unchained.”

The explosion came—violent, feral, Brisance’s last act of spite.

Mordecai moved.

His arms swept forward, commanding, not begging, not hoping—commanding the shadows to obey.

The detonation struck—but instead of consuming him, it collided with the seething wall of Wrath’s power. The blast fought, pressed, cracked against the barrier—but it didn’t break.

It bent.

And then—

It turned.

The shadows howled, a vortex of flame and darkness, redirecting the blast with brutal precision.

Straight into Dunemire’s cavalry.

The explosion hit like a divine verdict, tearing through Karn’s forces, their golden shields shattered, formation ruptured, screams and metal crashing together in a storm of punishment.

Mordecai stood at the eye of it all, his third eye burning, his fangs bared, shadows still seething off his frame.

“Mock the gods,” he snarled, voice low and laced with Wrath’s own, “and be reminded who holds the power.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Silence.

For a single, agonizing moment, the world held its breath.

Then—obliteration.

The explosion, redirected by Wrath’s unyielding grasp, collided with Dunemire’s mirrored shield wall. The golden formation that had once been a symbol of unbreakable discipline and order—shattered instantly.

No screams.

No last cries.

Only ash.

The force of the detonation was total. The golden shields, once pristine and gleaming, were superheated in an instant, melting to slag before even hitting the ground. The armored cavalry—the finest warriors Dunemire had ever trained—were disintegrated where they stood. Bodies, horses, weapons—erased.

At the center of it all—Karn and Eoghan.

Dunemire’s unshakable leader. Her most trusted second.

She had always been calculating. Always in control. She had survived wars, betrayal, and bloodshed. But control meant nothing now.

She barely had time to register what had happened. The moment her eyes widened in realization, she was already gone.

No bones. No armor. Not even dust.

The firestorm swept through them like a tidal wave, leaving behind only a blackened crater where Dunemire’s proudest warriors had once stood. An entire army—erased in a single breath.

The air was thick with fallout and ruin. The space where Dunemire’s forces had once stood was now a charred void, the battlefield left without an opponent. No survivors. No remnants. No retreat.

Dunemire’s military, its leadership, its future—ceased to exist.

There would be no retaliation.

There would be no whispers of vengeance.

Dunemire had no one left to whisper at all.

And at the epicenter of the destruction, amidst the swirling embers and the blackened ruin—stood Mordecai.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stood at the edge of annihilation.

Ash clung to the wind. Embers smoldered in silence. The crater before him—a wound carved into the earth—marked the end of Dunemire’s might.

Karn. Eoghan. The golden cavalry. Gone.

His breath came slow, steady—the rush of battle ebbing, the fire within him dimming to a controlled burn. His fur, still bristling from Wrath’s surge, began to settle. The third eye upon his brow—Wrath’s eye—closed, the crimson glow fading. His tail lowered, flicking once behind him.

No regret.

Only resolve.

Karn had made her move. She had played her war. And she had lost.

Mordecai stepped forward, his hooves crunching against the scorched ground, the remains of Dunemire’s arrogance nothing more than slag and smoke beneath his feet.

From the edge of the battlefield, Eryon approached, his cloak torn, his armor scored with soot—but his stance unbroken. He stopped before Mordecai, eyes sharp, breath controlled.

“Lord Mordecai, are you injured?”

Mordecai didn’t hesitate. His gaze didn’t waver.

“No.”

His voice was low, even—unbothered by the carnage around him.

His eyes shifted to Eryon. “Your men?”

Eryon gave a single, solemn nod. “They still stand. Some have fallen.” He straightened, pride in every word. “They fought in glory. They will be honored.”

Mordecai nodded once, already turning his gaze to the fractured wall behind them—the breach still glowing faintly from heat.

“Seal that breach. Now. No entry. No slip-ins. I want it fortified and guarded until it’s stone again. Understood?”

Eryon’s fist struck his chest—a warrior’s vow. “It will be done.”

A pause. Then—

“The other Harlekin—Katya—Silvano went after her. I trust he did not fail.”

Mordecai said nothing.

But he looked back toward the city. No gold overtook Umbrafane’s walls. No signs of decay. A good sign.

Without another word, he stepped away—leaving the ruin, the dead, and the ash behind him.

There were others who needed him now.

His city.

His family.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim moved through the ruin with measured steps, her violet eyes sharp, burning—not with Wrath’s fire, but with something colder, something more resolute.

Her boots pressed against the scorched earth, leaving faint imprints in the soot, but she barely noticed. Her coat, usually pristine, was streaked with battle’s dust, her sword still clutched in her hand—though its edge had yet to drink in vengeance.

It didn’t need to.

That had already been delivered.

She saw the crater before she saw him.

A wound on the world itself. A scar that would never fade, because there would be no one left to remember it.

No Karn.

No Eoghan.

No Dunemire.

Mordecai stood at the edge of it, his silhouette stark against the embers still smoldering in the air. His posture was composed, unshaken, but she could feel it—the weight, the lingering hum of Wrath’s power still crackling beneath his skin. He was still coming down from it. Still holding onto something only he could understand.

And he was about to leave.

Ephraim saw it in the shift of his stance, the way his fingers flexed against the grip of his cane, the way his breath came slow and measured—not out of exhaustion, but calculation. He had decided. The battle was over. The wreckage was meaningless. His work was done, and he would walk away without looking back.

She exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders before stepping beside him. Close enough to remind him she was there.

Her voice was low, steady. “Silvano did not fail, we are all okay." She quickly introduces, "She made her choices, we made ours."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s ears flicked at the sound of her voice.

He didn’t turn right away—but the tension in his shoulders shifted. Not relaxed. Focused. Still coming down from the storm. Still holding Wrath close, as if letting go too fast would shatter the control he’d spent years mastering.

Then—a breath. Short. Tired. Not from weakness—just finality.

He turned to her, eyes burning red but steady now. Measured. Calculating. The battlefield was done, but something in him was still moving—already working through what came next.

“Silvano didn’t fall now, did he?” Mordecai’s tone was dry, the faintest curl of amusement edging his words. “Still the same old fox, slippery as ever.” He muttered it more to himself, eyes narrowing, as if the thought sparked something deeper. Something unfinished.

But then, his focus shifted—fully—to her.

“You’re right,” he said, voice lower, colder. “She made her choices. And we made ours.”

His gaze flicked back toward the smoldering crater, jaw tightening.

“No hesitation.”

A beat.

“Harwin’s finally decided to announce himself. No more hiding behind masks and whispers. No more cowardice.” The venom in his voice was unmistakable, the promise of retaliation already forming behind his eyes.

He looked at her again—really looked—and stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. Not as a comfort. As a vow.

“They will not take this from us. Not our legacy. Not our children. Not the city we built from the ashes. Never again.”

His red eyes locked on hers, a flicker of something like pride—but deeper. Respect.

Then his tone shifted, sharper.

“Now you.”

He studied her, noting the fire in her eyes, the weight in her stance. She had seen war, and he saw it in her. Felt it.

“What happened? You and Silvano—that’s not a pairing I’d ever expect. What did you do?” His voice held a faint challenge—half-curious, half-ready to measure just how far she’d stepped into the storm beside him.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim exhaled, rolling her shoulders back slightly as if shaking off the weight of the night. Her violet eyes, still sharp, still burning, flickered toward the crater once more—before dismissing it entirely. The dead were gone. The living had work to do.

She met Mordecai’s gaze without hesitation.

“It was all Silvano,” she said smoothly, almost dismissively. “I simply followed the chaos and did what I had to.”

There was no need to elaborate. Whatever she had done—whatever storm she had unleashed—was already buried behind her composed exterior.

Her gaze sharpened for a brief second, a flicker of something harder passing through her expression.

“But Buzz—” she paused, the words caught in her throat for the briefest moment before she forced them through, level, steady, measured. “Buzz didn’t make it.”

A beat.

“She went down fighting.”

That was the only way Ephraim would allow it to be spoken.

There was no mourning in her voice—not because she did not grieve, but because Buzz deserved more than grief. Buzz deserved remembrance. She would not let her fall become something fragile. Something mournful. Buzz fought, and she fell. That was all. That was enough.

Her hand lifted, briefly brushing against Mordecai’s wrist, grounding herself there for a fleeting second before she withdrew.

“Let's get going,” she continued, moving forward already, shifting from battle into action. Into what came next. “The city will be looking to us for answers.”

And then, just slightly softer—just enough to be heard over the quiet ruin—

“The children too, I'm sure,"

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai watched her closely—listening, absorbing—not just her words, but the way she carried them.

“That sounds like Silvano,” he said dryly, a faint curl of amusement at the edge of his voice. “Chaos and theatrics wrapped in a coat of smugness. But he’s never been just a fool. Unity Haven’s ratkin used to dance in his palm. He’s dangerous in his own way—annoying, but useful.”

Then she spoke of Buzz.

Mordecai’s eyes narrowed—not in surprise, but calculation. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t offer empty condolences. That wasn’t who he was. Buzz was closer to Ephraim. Always had been.

But he gave her what mattered.

“I see,” he said—quiet, firm. No dismissal. Just acknowledgment. And in Mordecai’s world, that was respect.

“Umbrafane will remember.” His voice held weight in that—finality, not as an end, but as a mark. Buzz would not vanish into ash. She would be remembered properly.

As Ephraim moved forward, his gaze lingered for a moment—then followed. His tail flicked once, brushing lightly against her leg—playful, subtle, but grounding. A gesture not seen, not spoken, but felt.

He walked beside her.

“I hope the children aren’t too shaken,” he muttered, more to himself than her.

He glanced sidelong at Ephraim, eyes steady.

“Let us go."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The streets of Umbrafane were alive.

Not in celebration. Not in mourning. But in that strange, raw state between catastrophe and resolution—when the embers were still warm, when the dust had not yet settled, and yet, life had already begun pressing forward.

The people of the city had seen. They had heard the blasts, felt the tremors beneath their feet. And now, they sought answers.

Mordecai and Ephraim’s return was not unnoticed.

Figures emerged from the alleyways, from behind market stalls, from homes where families had huddled in tense silence. Their eyes—sharp, weary, expectant—watched their rulers pass through the streets. Some stood close, murmuring to one another in hushed tones. Others were bolder, stepping forward, asking.

"What happened?"

"Are we safe?"

The questions poured in, overlapping, pressing in from all sides, though none dared get too close. There was respect in their distance—but the weight of their need was suffocating.

Mordecai’s presence alone kept most from reaching too far. His expression was carved from stone, his crimson gaze sweeping over the kin like a silent decree. They would get their answers. In time.

But Ephraim led on, cutting through the crowd with purpose.

She walked with certainty—controlled, steady—but not unaffected.

She had lost a soldier tonight. A friend. The air still stank of battle, and she could still hear the echo of Buzz’s voice in her ears.

Still, she moved forward. Because that was what leaders did.

“Did you select a Seneschal?” she asked, her voice smooth, though edged with something tired. “How were Silvano’s candidates?”

“—Lady Ephraim!”

The voice—sharp, eager, cutting into her words like a knife.

Ephraim’s jaw tensed.

A kin—a merchant, judging by his apron and ink-stained fingers—stepped forward, bold enough to interrupt but not quite foolish enough to step directly in her path. His expression was somewhere between excitement and desperation, and his hands fidgeted as he spoke.

“I must speak with you about the trade district’s imports—the supply chains were—”

Ephraim’s ear flicked. The faintest sign of annoyance.

Not because of the concern—not even because of the topic—but because he had interrupted.

She had just asked Mordecai a question.

Her patience—already thinned by the night—wavered.

Not broken. Not lashed out. But wavered.

She inhaled sharply through her nose, cutting a glance toward Mordecai, the look saying everything.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s ears flicked—just once—as Ephraim spoke, but the interruption sliced through the moment like a dull, grating blade.

The merchant’s voice. The desperation. The timing.

Mordecai met Ephraim’s gaze—a silent exchange. He didn’t need words. Neither did she.

Then he turned.

His eyes burned—not loud, not flaring—but sharp. Measured.

“Enough.”

The word struck like a hammer, low and lethal. His tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It carved through the crowd, silencing the murmurs, the shuffling. The air seemed to still.

Mordecai stepped forward slightly, the space between them cold and deliberate.

“Do you not see the city around you?” he said, voice like ice over smoldering embers. “Do you not feel it still shaking beneath your feet?”

He gestured once—not grandly. A flick of his fingers. The crater, the rubble, the ashes of a force that had dared breach Umbrafane.

“You will not interrupt her again.”

His stare didn’t waver. It didn’t blink.

“Your concerns will be taken to Mern Plumestride. He is the Seneschal now. You will report to him—not us.”

A pause—brief, final.

“Go.”

There was no room for objection. No room for hesitation. Only obedience.

Mordecai turned without waiting for the merchant to scramble away, his focus already back on Ephraim.

A subtle nod—let’s move—before falling into step beside her.

“As I was saying—Mern Plumestride is in place. Still green, but he understands what’s expected. Wrath made sure of that.” His tone didn’t shift, but something sharpened behind his eyes.

“I don’t care if he fumbles. He will learn. Fast.” A beat. “I expect results. He knows this.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim let out a slow breath, pressing two fingers briefly to her temple as she walked beside him. The momentary migraine was already brewing, pressing at the edges of her thoughts like a dull, inevitable ache.

It wasn’t the city’s unrest—that, she could handle.

It wasn’t Mern—him, she trusted to figure it out.

It was the dinner.

The family dinner.

Her steps carried her forward, unhurried but purposeful, her mind already organizing, preparing.

“Mern will handle it,” she said smoothly, her voice even but edged with thought. “He’s sharp. Quick with words, but not foolish. He’ll learn.”

A beat. Then, a slight tilt of her head, a flicker of amusement in her tone.

“He's cute, in an Avarice sort of way,”

Not in admiration. Not in affection. Simply an observation. A scholar assessing a subject.

Mordecai’s expression didn’t shift, but she caught the barely-there twitch of his tail—mild exasperation, knowing her too well.

She smirked to herself and continued.

“The family dinner will be tonight,” she said, her voice shifting back to business. “We’ll discuss…” Her fingers flexed at her side. The inevitable. “Callabassas’ future here, given the circumstances.”

It wasn’t just a matter of hosting a child now. It wasn’t just taking in someone lost.

Dunemire was gone.

And Callabassas was no longer a boy from a distant city. He was now one of the last threads of it.

She exhaled slowly through her nose as they neared the estate. “We’ll bring out the wine barrels from the cellars,” she added, glancing toward the lower levels of the estate. “Orlin Redtail’s latest shipment arrived this week—better now than later.”

She wasn’t drinking for comfort. She refused to let today drive her to that.

But she also knew that by the end of the night, her father would want to discuss everything.

He would bring it up. He would ask the questions. He would talk about what Wrath had done, what it meant, what would follow.

And Ephraim would have to answer.

She exhaled, long and slow, the flicker of a headache already forming.

“Remind me,” she murmured, her tone dry, “to drink before he starts.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai kept walking, his posture unreadable, every step deliberate—controlled. But inside? He felt it.

That familiar drop in his gut.

Family dinner.

He would’ve preferred facing Brisance again. Or the Augor. Or any number of nightmares the world could throw at him. Anything but that.

He exhaled once, slow and thin, the sound barely audible over the click of his cane on stone.

“Ah, yes,” he muttered, his tone as dry as the dust beneath their feet. “The cherished gathering of kin—where one battle ends, and another begins.”

His voice didn’t sharpen. It didn’t need to. They both knew.

Jasper and Riversong—they had changed. Over time, there had been progress. Understanding. Jasper remained infuriating, but familiar. Riversong, at least, had come to terms with her role, learned to listen, to step where needed—and no further.

But Ephraim’s parents? Her siblings? The new dynamic with their children present?

Mordecai sighed. Low. Annoyed.

He knew the fight ahead had nothing to do with Harlekin, and everything to do with manners, wine, and diplomacy.

His gaze shifted slightly.

“Callabassas… yes.”

He didn’t stop walking, didn’t pause—but his voice softened. Barely.

“This morning, he was just a boy—one we’d agreed to guide. Help him shape his path.” A short silence. “Now, he’s the last thread of a city that no longer exists.”

The cane struck the stone, rhythmic and certain, grounding him.

“He’ll choose his own mold,” Mordecai said, his voice steady again. “But we’ll ensure he never walks that path alone.”

A pause.

Then—just the faintest twitch of a smirk at her final remark.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he muttered. “We’ll both be in the wine before they even sit down.”

A pause.

“We’ll need it.”