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

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stood before the gate, unmoving.

The Riftkin quarters.

He had helped build this place—designed it with care, carved it from compromise. A space meant for healing. A line drawn with reluctant kindness.

He had freed the Riftkin from bondage, unshackled them from their Soulvow chains. Some had called him savior. Others, traitor. All had learned, eventually, that they answered not to him—but to Wrath.

His hand hovered against the wood, resting near the scarred iron bolts. Hesitant.

“…Ephraim,” he murmured, barely above breath. “Why did you come here?”

He glanced back over his shoulder. The market, once alive with noise and movement, had vanished behind layers of silence. As if the city itself refused to cross this line.

His stomach turned—tight and sour. Not fear. Not quite. Something older. Something deeper.

He looked down to the cane—not at Wrath, but at what lay beneath. Deeper power.

Always be ready.

With a quiet sigh, he shifted forward, pressing his shoulder into the door. The hinges groaned—a long, low creak that seemed to echo too far, too deep.

He stepped through the gate, eyes narrowed, posture tight, scanning the edges of shadow and stone.

“Ephraim?” he called—low, careful. A voice made not to disturb, but to warn.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The Riftkin district exhaled a silence that felt lived-in.

It wasn’t the silence of neglect. It was the silence of something other—an absence that had made itself comfortable. Streets wide like the rest of Umbrafane, but emptier. Buildings once built to match the city's elegant geometry now stood in varying states of decay—not from time, but from disregard. Paint peeled in curls. Iron railings hung askew. Stonework split where roots had pressed through.

Vines had overtaken entire corners, blooming without permission. Trees twisted up through rooftops, their trunks bent like bodies too long without rest. Nature had started to reclaim this place, because no one else had bothered.

Mordecai’s footsteps echoed differently here. Louder. Closer.

Signs were posted—symbols scrawled in the language of Riftkin. Spirals, slashes, angular loops and inverted runes. Warnings, maybe. Or instructions. Or prayers. There was no way to know without asking someone who lived here.

But there was no one in sight.

Just the sharp stutter of the fountain in the courtyard, spitting water in short, choked bursts from rusted spouts. Algae lined its base. Moss clung to its rim like a crown of fatigue.

And at his feet—just inside the gate—a shattered porcelain mask.

White. Smooth. Split into sharp-edged pieces.

Mordecai recognized it.

Not the face, but the shape.

They littered the ground like fallen petals after a storm.

Dozens. Maybe hundreds.

Fragments of porcelain scattered across the stone—cracked eyes, splintered jaws, half a cheekbone here, the suggestion of a mouth there. Some were shattered cleanly, like glass under deliberate force. Others were crushed beyond recognition, as if trampled in a panic or peeled from flesh with trembling hands.

They weren’t clustered in one place. They were everywhere.

Down the walkways. At the foot of buildings. Piled near stoops. Floating in the shallow gutters beside the curbs. Silent, motionless testimony.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai froze, the moment his cane crunched against something brittle beneath his step.

He looked down.

Porcelain.

His ears twitched, eyes widening just slightly as he took a step back, the weight of the silence settling heavier around him. The mask was split clean down the center—deliberate. Not time-worn. Not accident.

He lifted his gaze.

There were more.

Scattered like bones. Fragments in the gutters. Slivers beside doorways. Jagged smiles beneath windows left ajar. Too many. Far too many.

His grip on the cane tightened.

He looked back toward the gate—still ajar, quiet behind him—then slowly forward again.

“…How,” he muttered, disbelief catching in his throat.

He took a few tentative steps deeper into the district, boots brushing past petals of shattered ceramic, his breath low and measured. The unease crawled under his skin. He could feel it—something had happened here. Something no one had expected.

Or worse—something no one would speak of.

Nature was reclaiming it, yes—but not with peace. With abandonment. With absence.

“What happened here…” he whispered to no one. Or to himself.

His shoulders were drawn, posture stiff, but there was an anxious pull to his frame. A tremor beneath the surface.

Harlekin. Too many. Standing in their aftermath felt like standing inside a scream.

His heart beat harder than it should have. His stomach twisted with something unspoken, instinctive.

“…Wrath,” he said—quieter now. Not commanding. Not irritated.

Just calling.

A tether in the dark, reaching for something that had never once left his side.

He stilled, closing his eyes.

Trying to focus. Trying not to hear the sound of porcelain breaking behind his teeth.

Request: Mordecai wants to roll for danger sense

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Wrath stirred in the cane.

Not loud. Not bold. Just a low thrum beneath Mordecai’s palm—like the echo of something ancient flexing in the dark.

It wasn’t a threat.

It was confirmation.

There had been something here. A great many somethings.

Harlekin energy. Residual, scattered—but unmistakable. It clung like ash to the corners of the street, layered in pale threads that only beings like Wrath could trace. Faint, but not faded. This wasn’t old.

It was aftermath.

More than one mask. More than one face. A coordinated push—familiar to Wrath now. It had the shape of their schemes. The stench of desperation. The timing. They’d tried to breach Umbrafane here, through the Riftkin quarters.

But it had failed.

Utterly.

Wrath could feel it in the stone, in the cracks, in the splinters of mask still humming with the memory of fear. Something—or someone—had stopped them. Not quietly. Not mercifully.

Crushed them.

Shattered them.

Mordecai’s instincts had been right. Ephraim had passed through. Her signature lingered—not strong, but certain. Wrath found it easily now, threaded through the cracked streets and up the walls like roots searching for a sky.

And faint—farther back, thinner than a whisper—Riversong.

She had walked here too.

But there was no immediate danger now. No claws behind curtains. No breath on the back of Mordecai’s neck. Just... space. Empty. Still. As if the district were holding its breath, waiting to see who would speak first.

Too quiet.

Too open.

Not unnatural. Just odd.

The Riftkin didn’t walk the streets often. That much had always been true. They’d lived within things. Sublevels. Tunnels. Interiors. Maybe they’d all been pulled somewhere. Congregated? Or maybe just remained to their own devices.

Disappeared.

Orlin had been the bridge between this place and the rest of the city—and with his absence?

No one had looked.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s stomach turned—cold, sharp. A sweat prickled beneath his coat.

The traces were undeniable. Ephraim… and Riversong.

His breath caught, eyes darting toward the gate behind him. Then forward again, into the hollow stillness of the district.

Without another thought, he moved.

A sudden, urgent stride—no longer composed, no longer measured. He bolted, cane tapping erratically as his steps quickened. Wrath’s pull guided him, the thread of shadow essence winding through the stone like a lifeline.

“Ephraim!” he called, voice cutting through the stillness, one hand cupped around his mouth. “Riversong!”

The names echoed off the buildings, sharp against the silence—answerless.

But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Something was pulling him forward now, something deeper than instinct.

They had been here. And he wasn’t leaving until he found them.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Wrath pulled tight through the cane—like a tether drawn taut in the dark.

Riversong’s essence, once a soft trail beside Ephraim’s, began to fragment. It thinned, bent around itself. A loop. A spiral. Then, gone.

She had left.

Of her own accord. No struggle. No rupture.

But Ephraim—

Her presence grew louder.

With every step Mordecai took, the air thickened with it. Not just her essence, but her intent. Her shadow threaded the street like a signature. Wrath could feel it—strong. Rooted.

Not a passing visit.

A confrontation.

Mordecai’s feet struck broken stone and porcelain, his breath ragged in the back of his throat, and then—

There it was.

A tall building. Abandoned, half-sunken, overtaken by crawling vines and shattered glass. Its windows were broken at the edges, its door unhinged, leaning like a warning. Weeds sprouted from the cracks in the steps, but the path to it was clear.

Not by chance.

By movement.

Ephraim’s shadow was all over it—etched into the entryway, spattered along the walls, a heat pressed into the hollow bones of the place. She had gone inside.

And she hadn’t yet come out.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stared up at the building, shadows pooling at its base like ink drawn to something old and unresolved.

Ephraim.

Her presence was everywhere. Woven into the walls. Pressed into the stone. It clawed at the edges of his composure.

He glanced back—just once.

Porcelain fragments littered the street behind him, a broken trail of warnings too late to heed. The weight in his stomach twisted again—tension curdling into something dangerously close to fury.

Enough.

His breath caught, then grounded itself in the tight draw of his shoulders. He stepped forward, pushing through the vines and past the leaning door.

His cane didn’t strike the ground.

He held it up instead—gripped like a short spear, the point angled forward, ready.

“Ephraim!” he called again, voice sharp, commanding.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The interior of the building swallowed sound like a tomb.

The moment Mordecai stepped over the threshold, the air shifted—dense, damp, wrong. Every breath tasted like iron and old rain.

The light barely reached inside. Dust floated like ash in the quiet, undisturbed until now. Wrath slithered forward ahead of him, his form wraithlike in the gloom—but he slowed.

Stopped.

Something was off.

The shadow normally drawn to Vengeance’s presence recoiled, like it had touched water that wasn’t water. A silence that didn’t just exist, but refused. The bond between Wrath and Vengeance—usually a thread tight as breath—was dampened. Fuzzed. Submerged.

Mordecai’s eyes locked on the figure on the ground.

Ephraim.

Her hair clung wetly to her cheeks. Her coat was soaked along the hem, as if she’d walked through mist—or blood—or something between.

She didn’t stir.

No answer to his voice.

No flare of her usual tension. No sharp breath. No glare.

Just stillness.

Too still.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

“Ephraim.”

The name left him in a breath—sharp, strained.

He almost moved—almost—his instincts already surging forward, reaching for her. But something in him halted. Froze.

She lay too still.

Too quiet.

His eyes swept her form, the wet cling of her coat, the unnatural hush in the air. Wrath coiled beside him, a low pulse through the cane, warning. Wrong. Something's wrong.

Mordecai staggered back a step, heart thudding behind his ribs.

“…No,” he whispered, shaking his head. Another step back. His throat tightened. “No, this is—this is an illusion. A trick.”

His grip clenched on the cane, knuckles pale.

“I’m not falling for this,” he said, steadier now. More certain. He forced his voice into stillness, even as something inside him reeled.

“This isn’t real,” he repeated, eyes locked on the motionless figure.

“You can’t trick me.”
Almost a snarl.
Almost a plea.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The silence held.

No breath. No stir. No trick of the eyes to reassure him.

Just stillness.

Then—

A drip.

A sound so soft it might have been imagined.

But then it came again.

Drip.

Drip.

Mordecai’s eyes widened, locked on her lips.

The water spilled slowly—unnaturally—from the corners of Ephraim’s mouth. It wasn’t spit. It wasn’t blood. It was darker. Heavier. Like ink diluted into rainwater.

It slipped down her cheek, staining her fur, winding across her jaw like something alive.

And within it—

Shadows.

Slithering shapes, coiling through the liquid like whispers trying to escape a locked room. Not smoke. Not mist. Something deeper. Something anchored.

Vengeance still did not stir.

The connection remained muffled.

Bound. Suppressed. Distant as a scream underwater.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai clenched his eyes shut.

But when he opened them, it was all still there.

The ink. The shadows. The unbearable stillness.

Then the movement—those slithering shapes spilling from her lips. His hand twitched at the sight, fingers tightening instinctively around the cane.

“…Wrath,” he murmured.

The cane pulsed faintly beneath his grip, like a heart beating too slow.

He hesitated, scanning the room once more—shadows in the corners, broken glass, rot in the walls—but nothing stirred.

Nothing but her.

He stepped forward, careful. Quiet. Breath held like a man moving through sacred ground. Another step. Then he dropped to one knee, just shy of reaching her, eyes fixed on the dark fluid trailing from her mouth.

It clung to her like it belonged there.

He bit the inside of his cheek. Blood bloomed on his tongue, grounding him.

“Wrath…” he said again, low and firm. “Try and reach out. Find her.”

The cane responded—pulsing once, sharper now.

He extended it slowly, deliberately. The tip hovered just above the ink-dark sheen along her jaw, then dipped—trailing gently toward the corner of her mouth, into the shadowed stream winding from within her.

A quiet breath escaped him.

“Come back to me,” he whispered—not to Wrath.

But to Ephraim.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

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

From this came artifacts.

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

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

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

---

“When I sat on the council,” she continued, her voice quieter now, “I wore an artifact. It was… powerful. Gave me clarity, focus—abilities the council needed. But it wasn’t just that.” She glanced at Mordecai, her expression unreadable for a moment before softening. “It made me feel. Constantly. Deeply. Every decision, every death, every failure—it weighed so much heavier because of it.”

Her voice faltered for a moment, but she pressed on, her tone steadying. “When the Grasp of Eternity was opened and the artifact was destroyed, I thought I’d be relieved. I thought I’d finally be free of the heaviness it brought. But…” She trailed off, her hand falling back to her side as her gaze flicked toward the floor.

“It didn’t change anything. Not really. My people—our people—were still gone. The choices I made on that council, the things I could’ve done differently, the ones I couldn’t save… all of it’s still here,” she said, tapping her temple lightly. “The weight wasn’t just in the necklace. It’s in me. And maybe it always was.”

---

The void rippled, shifting in a way it hadn’t in ages. Wrath’s domain had always been an expanse of endless shadow, untouched by anything but the raw force of his own being. But now, something else bled into it. Light, soft but steady, wove through the darkness—not harsh, not searing like the Augur’s false divinity, but something older, something familiar.

And then she was there.

Mercy.

Her form shimmered like liquid gold, shifting between presence and imprisonment. Lines of radiant energy pulsed beneath her skin, swirling like celestial veins, but her glow was muted beneath an unseen weight. Suspended atop her head, a glasslike dome sat affixed to her crown, filled with water that churned in slow, deliberate motion —the Tear of the Goddess—remained affixed to her, a relic that had loosened its grip on Ephraim but had never let go of her. It did not spill, did not empty. It was a burden, a tether. Though her body dripped with luminous strands of liquid light, the water above her remained still, as if it alone held dominion over her.

She was not drowning—not in the way mortals did—but the weight of it was unmistakable. The pressure pressed down on her, seeped into her, dimming the full brilliance of what she once was. The swirling rings of light that surrounded her, remnants of divinity, pulsed weakly beneath the burden she bore.

Yet she did not struggle.

Her hands pressed against something unseen, fingers curling slightly—not in resistance, not in demand, but in quiet, steady pleading. Not to be saved, but to be reached.

To be seen.

---

She didn’t move.

Didn’t stir.

The cane’s tip trembled faintly in Mordecai’s grip—like Wrath was reaching, but every tether snapped the moment it touched her. As if something had cut the cord between them. Not severed. Muted. As if Ephraim had been… submerged.

Her chest rose. Barely. Breath still passed through her.

But her lips didn’t part.

The ink kept dripping.

And her eyes—half-lidded, unblinking—were a vivid, unnatural blue. No iris. No pupil. Just light. Cold and endless, like the bottom of a well.

Still alive. But not here.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t sleep. It wasn’t poison.

It was something older. Bound by shadow. Held in place by will or curse or someone else’s design.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s face hardened, his grip on the cane trembling before he let it fall with a dull clatter. He closed the space between them in an instant, hands reaching for her shoulders, clutching, shaking.

“Ephraim!” His voice cracked as it left him, sharp with panic. “Ephraim—can you hear me?!”

His hands moved with increasing urgency, fingers digging into her as if he could pull her back by force alone. Her body gave beneath his touch, but there was no answer, no tension, no flicker of awareness.

“Ephraim, please,” he whispered, lifting her head with shaking hands, eyes flicking to her lips, her breath, anything. He cradled her face as if holding something fragile, like the weight of her absence might shatter him. His chest heaved.

“Come back. Please—come back.” He shook his head, eyes clenching. "This has to be a hallucination. That void, we didn't get out. Right?" He muttered to himself, voice like ice.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Function

Original Timeline:
The Tear of the Goddess was a powerful artifact, crafted using magic derived from Atticus’ historical magic—even though Atticus did not exist in that timeline.

The artifact’s magic mimicked his: it invoked stasis and submersion-like suspension, preserving or imprisoning those bound to it in a state of eternal awareness without control.

It was typically activated when one took the form of another, passing the Tear's effects onto the form's true owner—locking them away, rendering them unable to reclaim their body or agency.

Functionally:

The artifact froze its victim’s divine connection or essence.

It didn’t kill—it paused. Trapped in a slow-drowning consciousness, muted, alive, and unable to reach out; often taking the form of sadness.

Those affected could still be sensed—but only faintly, as if "underwater."

This Timeline: What Changed?
In the current timeline, Atticus does exist.

He has stolen Ephraim’s form, assuming the mantle of Vengeance.

And with that theft, reactivated a magical echo from his own legacy: the Tear of the Goddess effect.

But now it’s no longer bound to an artifact—it’s a natural side effect of his possession magic.

When Atticus took Ephraim’s form, she was not merely displaced.
She was put into stasis, as dictated by the original magic Atticus’ essence carried.

This explains:

• Why she’s unconscious but alive.
• Why Wrath and Mordecai cannot reach her.
• Why her essence feels “muted”, not broken.
• And why Vengeance does not speak—because the part of her is barely holding on inside the trap.

In Summary:

• Atticus’s possession magic revives the ancient stasis effect of the Tear of the Goddess.
• This effect traps the rightful vessel (Ephraim) in a submerged state—present, breathing, but silenced.
• Ephraim has not died. She has not been exorcised.
• She is simply suspended, body stolen, identity frozen, trapped in her own divine echo.
• Only by severing Atticus’ connection—or reclaiming the form—can she fully return.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Her body stirred—but not from within.

The breath that passed her lips was shallow. Mechanical. A function of life, not will.

Her head lolled slightly in Mordecai’s hands, damp hair clinging to her brow. Her skin was cool, not cold. Alive, but distant. Her eyelids didn’t flutter. Her voice didn’t stir. And behind her half-lidded gaze, those solid, unnatural blue eyes glowed faintly—still. Endless.

But something—just something—responded to his voice.

Not her.

Something within her.

The glow behind her eyes pulsed once, faint and slow, like a ripple in still water.

And then—

A tear.

Not hers.

But a thin trail of water slipped from the corner of her eye. It shimmered with the same shadow-tinged ink that had poured from her lips earlier. Silent. Intentional. As if something had heard him.

As if something, somewhere inside her, was trying—failing—but trying to reach him back.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai laid Ephraim back down with care—soft, reverent. But when his hands left her, he didn’t rise immediately.

He stood there. Still. Silent. Something cracking beneath the surface.

He didn’t just feel it—Wrath did too.

A twitch ran through his fingers.

“…No,” Mordecai said, his voice cold.

“No,” he growled again—and this time, Wrath growled with him.

Their voices folded together. One word, two souls. Wrath didn’t take over.

He stood with him.

Mordecai’s eyes flared crimson. The cane pulsed in his grip. And when he saw the tear—the ink-dark trail slipping from the corner of Ephraim’s eye, proof that something inside her had heard him—he stepped back like the weight of it had physically struck him.

And then he roared.

The sound tore out of him like fire ripping through old timber. A fury not shaped for words. His knees buckled. He dropped to all fours, breath ragged, heaving—each exhale powerful enough to stir the fur on Ephraim’s cheek.

The shadows answered.

They surged around him like a living storm, black flame crawling over skin and coat, not to consume—but to become.

This wasn’t Wrath overtaking him.
This was shared fury.
A fusion. A rebirth.

Atticus to Vengeance.
Poise to Ephraim.
The necklace.
The past.
Again.

But worse.

The building shuddered as the transformation took hold—boards creaking, windows groaning in their frames. A sharp, monstrous bellow erupted from the darkness, echoing through the hollow space like a god mourning in rage.

Then—

The beast emerged.

Not the skeletal, horned soulvow of before.

Something new.

Its head breached the veil first—living, solid, massive. Not bone. Not hollow. But furred, breathing, real. A warped beast’s snout lined with jagged fangs. Long, curved horns coiled back over its crown, thick and black and natural—like Mordecai’s, but sharper, more twisted, scorched with shadow.

Its eyes were pits of glowing red-orange flame. Not lit from within—burning from inside.

The shadows split wider.

A massive form followed.

Front limbs long and thick, wolf-like paws dragging dark smears across the floor. The back legs were goatlike—haunched, heavy, and clawed, hooves cracking against stone. Its fur was long, wild, bristling like smoke frozen mid-scream, flame flickering deep between strands.

Larger than Wrath had ever been.

This was more than him.

It was them.

The creature didn’t speak—only breathed.
Heavy. Guttural. Like coal pushed through lungs that had never known peace.

It turned toward her.

Even in Ephraim’s glassy, still gaze, the creature saw her.

It stepped forward, slow but sure, the floor trembling beneath its weight. And then—it knelt.

Front paws bent. Horned head low. Muzzle dipped gently to her cheek, a soft touch amid chaos.

No growl. No fire.

Just presence.

A promise, unspoken.

Then it rose again.

Turned.

Faced the door.

Sniffed once.

Tracking.

Where are you, Atticus...

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The wind howled low across the outskirts of Umbrafane—dry grass whispering, trees swaying like they remembered too much. The sky above was heavy with cloud, but no storm came. Not yet.

And there—atop a crumbling stone outpost long abandoned by scouts—stood Ephraim.

No. Not Ephraim. Atticus.

Her shape was perfect. Her coat. Her posture. Even her stillness mirrored her exactly—shoulders back, spine poised, one hand resting lightly on the railing, the other curled against her waist as if holding memory.

A mimic’s gaze. A thief’s echo. Stolen light without warmth.

Atticus watched the sprawl of the city in the distance, the dim halo of Umbrafane glittering like a low constellation. Not close. Not yet. But reachable.

In the silence, he raised one hand—Ephraim’s hand—and flexed the fingers slowly, marveling again at the weight of her. The shape of her rage. The brilliance of her fear.

He smiled faintly, lips parting in a delicate, too-perfect grin.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. The voice was Ephraim’s.

But the tone? Hollow. Fond. Reverent.

Like a collector admiring a stolen artifact.

A pause. Then he tilted his head.

Atticus turned from the edge of the outpost, coat flaring as the mimic-form adjusted, lips twitching in amusement.

He began to walk—calmly, confidently—into the woods behind him, shadows drawing close like old conspirators.

And beneath it all, the Tear pulsed.

Not around his neck.

But within him.

The stolen light of divinity.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The beast trembled—its breath ragged, wet shadows dripping from its jaws and sizzling against the floor. Every exhale came out like a growl dragged through fire. The room warped around it, vision flickering, shaking—blurring between red and black and the faint trails of scent that only fury could track.

Ephraim’s stillness behind it only stoked the flames.

Her silence.

Her stolen body.

The rage was too much. Too vast. Too old. Too now.

A guttural snarl tore from the beast’s throat as it threw its head back, unleashing a howl so deep, so unnatural, the building itself seemed to flinch. Its massive front paws lifted and slammed down again, rearing like a frenzied war beast. The floorboards groaned beneath its weight.

It couldn’t contain itself.

It paced around her body—twice. Then again. Eyes aflame with searing red-orange fury locked onto her glassy, drowning blue ones. No flicker. No fight.

Yet.

The beast screamed again, a jagged sound that cracked through its throat like splintering stone. Then it staggered backward—recoiling, as if its own rage was a cage closing too tightly around it. It slammed its head low to the ground, scenting wildly.

And there—there.

The trail.

A scent buried deep under rot and ink and ruin.

Atticus.

The beast’s lips peeled back over jagged fangs, and it roared again—a brutal, raw sound, not of triumph, but promise.

Then it moved.

It barreled into the door with violent force, splinters and rusted hinges exploding outward. Wood shattered. Stone cracked. The creature surged out into the Riftkin district like a curse made flesh.

The streets were still coated in the aftermath—porcelain fragments, broken silence, ghosted memories of the fight. But it didn't matter now.

Only one scent mattered.

The beast reared back once more and howled—a sound so immense and warped it twisted the very air around it. A keening wail laced with grief, with rage, with mourning sharpened into vengeance. It sounded less like a howl and more like a wound.

Then—

Destruction.

It threw itself into nearby walls and trees, smashing through vines and debris, each motion violent and wild, like the pain needed somewhere to land. A form of grief so monstrous it couldn’t stop moving.

Then it stilled.

Breath heaving. Shoulders quaking.

It had him.

Atticus.

The trail was clear now—buried deep, but clear. The scent clung to the beast’s lungs like smoke.

It broke into a run.

A thunderous, unstoppable movement through the district. Walls blurred. Shadows tore behind it. Its claws cracked stone, hooves digging into the earth like every step carved a path to judgment.

Atticus.

He had stolen her shape.

He would now learn what it meant to provoke their wrath.

The beast was coming.

---

The Riftkin district was still—but not the kind of stillness Riversong liked.
No, this was something eerier. Something that made the air too tight in her chest.

She moved through Umbrafane with urgency, breath short, limbs aching from the effort. She wasn’t built for running, not anymore. But she moved anyway—driven not by strength, but by the deep ache pulling at her spirit. In her hand, she carried a long elegant wooden staff, with shards of different crystals rising from the top like natural shining spikes.

Something was wrong.

Not just with the city. Not just the air.

With them.

Mordecai. Ephraim. Something had shifted—like a current gone wild beneath calm water. It hurt in her ribs. In her throat.

She wasn’t a fighter like they were. She had never needed to be.

But she’d watched Ephraim’s parents die.
She’d watched pain ripple through Mordecai’s life like poison in still water.
She couldn’t stand back anymore.

The only thing she could do was follow.

Follow that pain wherever it pulled her.

She reached the Riftkin gate and pushed it open with slow, deliberate hands. It creaked under her touch.

And there—shattered masks across the stone. Dozens. More.

Porcelain fragments scattered like broken teeth, catching the gray light in silence.

Her breath hitched.

Riversong knelt slowly, one hand trembling as it hovered over the ruin. She picked up a shard. Cool. Smooth. Empty.

The district was overgrown—vines winding through rails, moss curling over doors. Forgotten. Left behind. And yet… something had stirred here. She could feel it. The tension. The panic. Like water that had only just stopped boiling.

Her voice came soft.

“...Ephraim?”

No answer.

Only the hush of water dripping from above—steady, rhythmic, slipping off the edge of a nearby rooftop. Moss darkened the walls there, and as Riversong stepped closer, the trickle thickened. Louder. Almost like rain.

She reached out, laying her palm flat along the wall.

Then—a shift.

The water bent beneath her hand, trailing downward—not randomly, but deliberately. Gathering.

And from the pooled water, a shape began to rise—fluid and familiar. Shimmering.

A small Riftkin, otter-shaped, formed from liquid, its fur in constant motion like a river’s surface. It squeaked softly, eyes wide with recognition.

“Riversong!” it cried, voice light and bright as it floated toward her.

She smiled gently. “Rippletail.”

She reached out, scratching its cheek with graceful fingers. The little creature squeaked again, delighted, and dove into her arms, curling against her with need.

Riversong held it close, rocking slightly, instinctively. Her gaze moved across the broken district, her voice a hush.

“Rippletail… what happened here?”

The Riftkin’s ears flattened. Its waterform quivered in her arms.

“Harlekin,” it whispered. “They attacked. Ephraim came. She fought with us.”

Its nose twitched, and it buried deeper into her arms, shivering.

Riversong’s hand moved across its head, soft and steady. “Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry.”

Her eyes stayed on the ruins. The silence. The pain still lingering in the stone.

“Where is Ephraim now?”

Rippletail hesitated, water trembling.

“I… I don’t know. I got scared. I hid. There was a Harlekin—fishy. Water. But the water… smelled wrong. Dark.”

Its body rippled, ears drooping.

“Its energy was… confusing. Mimicking. Not real.”

Riversong nodded slowly, her jaw tight with emotion.

Something deep in her chest dropped. She could feel it—wrongness, stretching beneath her ribs like roots digging down. This wasn’t over. Not yet.

She exhaled gently. “It’s alright. You were brave.”

Her voice trembled with warmth, not weakness.

“I need to find this Harlekin,” she said at last. Her tone didn’t rise. It didn’t harden. But it was final.

Rippletail blinked, eyes wide. “Are you sure?”

Not doubting. Just in awe.

Riversong nodded.

“There’s too much pain in this city, my dear. This must end. If I can ease even a drop of it… I will.”

Rippletail gave a high squeak, slipping from her arms in a swirl of motion. It floated around her shoulders, then dipped to her feet and bounced in the air like a raindrop ready to fall.

“I want to come! Please, Riversong! Rippletail wants to help!”

She smiled—full and kind, even amid the weight in her chest.

“Of course, my dear. Please… come.”

Rippletail squeaked in delight, paws flailing midair as it bounced once, then turned toward the winding path ahead.

“This way!”

Riversong brought a hand to her chest.

A slow, deep exhale.

Then she followed.

---

Eryon had been circling the edge of the festival, keeping watch as Mern’s spectacle took shape—eyes sharp, jaw tight, shoulders squared. His hooves tread steady paths through the crowd.

Until the sound hit.

A roar—no, a howl. Demonic.

His chest locked. His hoof slipped.

Eryon caught himself, hand braced against the nearest wall.

The sound tore through Umbrafane like a wound—low, guttural, wrong. The sky didn’t move, but the air did. Thick. Heavy. Tainted.

Gasps. Murmurs. Heads turning.

He didn’t wait.

He ran.

Hooves pounding stone. Heavy. Final. The crowd barely had time to part as the Captain of the Guard barreled past.

He hit the gate at full tilt, shoulder slamming into the metal. It groaned open.

Then—he saw it.

A beast.

Massive.

Black fur, wild and seething like smoke. A goat’s head, twisted and burning, those red-orange eyes ablaze. The body? Part wolf. Part nightmare.

It screamed, slamming its head into buildings, tearing trees from the earth, flinging its fury into the district.

Eryon’s hand hovered near his axe, but he didn’t draw. Not yet.

Not until he understood.

Was this Riftkin? Was it an attack?

The beast roared again—and ran.

Eryon lunged to follow—stopped. His eyes caught the ruin it left behind. Porcelain masks. Broken door.

Something happened here.

He turned.

Stormed toward the wrecked building. Pushed past the shattered frame—and froze.

On the floor, soaked and unmoving—

Ephraim.

His breath caught.

He dropped beside her, armor groaning as he knelt.

“Lady Ephraim?!”

His voice, always solid, cracked.

She didn’t move.

Soaked. Cold. Like she’d been pulled from deep water.

Eryon’s eyes flicked from her body to the door, to the shattered masks, then back again.

Something had gone wrong.
Badly.

---

Riversong moved alongside Rippletail near the outer edges of Umbrafane, past the orchard groves where wild branches bent low with age. The little Riftkin spirit led the way, nose twitching, body trailing like a stream in motion.

She stayed quiet.

Focused forward.

Her hand stayed loosely on the elegant wooden staff she carried—crystal shards bound at the top like frozen stars. A gift from long ago. Her thoughts ran quiet, low, not toward herself, but toward what lay ahead. Toward the pain.

The Harlekin.

She stopped.

So did Rippletail.

Both froze.

A vibration hummed through the ground.

"Rippletail?" Riversong asked softly, her voice barely a breath.

The little spirit shook. “Something’s coming,” it squeaked, trembling.

Then it disappeared—melting into liquid, vanishing into the damp moss and air. Not gone. Just hidden. Just waiting.

The trees swayed.

And then—

The Beast came.

It tore through the woods in a furious blur—flames of shadow essence trailing from its limbs, fur wild with stormlight. The orchard cracked under its weight, paws and hooves alike pounding earth into splinters. It snarled, screamed, roared—blind with wrath.

Riversong gasped as it burst into view. Towering. Massive.

No Riftkin. No beast she’d ever known.

But something—something in its form...

Familiar.

The creature turned on her, eyes glowing, fangs bared. It lunged.

Riversong barely moved aside in time. It slammed into a tree with a sickening snap. Bark split. Branches cracked.

Her breath raced.

It turned on her again.

Targeted her.

Blazing, red-orange eyes seething with rage.

She didn’t run.

Her eyes widened—but not with fear. Recognition.

“…Mordecai?” she whispered.

The Beast roared again, maw open, flame curling in its throat. It lunged. She stumbled back. Fangs tore at the edge of her cloak.

It stalked forward, breath ragged, body shaking.

It snarled.

She stood tall.

Didn’t cower.

Didn’t flinch.

Her hand lifted, palm out.

“Wrath... Mordecai… you’re hurting.”

The words hit.

The Beast paused—just for a moment—but it was enough. Its heavy form loomed above her, breath hot, growl rumbling deep.

But it didn’t strike.

It watched.

Riversong looked into its eyes—saw something there.

Not just Wrath.

Not just Mordecai.

Something deeper. Something aching. Something older.

She had once feared what Wrath might make of her son—but this wasn’t corruption. This wasn’t destruction.

This was grief with claws.

Her mouth opened—then closed again.

She stepped forward.

Placed a hand gently on its muzzle.

It twitched. A warning. A breath.

But it let her.

“You’re both hurting,” she said again, voice soft as snowfall. “They hurt her… didn’t they?”

The Beast let out a guttural sound—low and distorted. A broken whimper twisted through monstrous throat. Not quite a word.

But pain. Undeniable.

Her eyes softened. “Oh, my dears,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”

The Beast shook—its breath uneven, body trembling. And then…

It stepped back.

Maw still parted. Breath still heavy.

But then—it lowered.

Kneeling.

Not in surrender.

In offering.

Riversong watched, still, reverent. Rippletail shimmered into form nearby, liquid reforming into its playful otter shape. Its little tail wiggled, nose twitching.

“They want help!” Rippletail said brightly, amazed. “They want help!”

Riversong gave a gentle smile, eyes misting. She approached, kneeling beside the Beast’s massive form. Her fingers brushed its fur—coarse, black, burning with shadowed heat. She touched its horns, traced the lines of what should have been terrifying.

But it wasn’t.

Not to her.

“Together,” she said softly.

And the Beast understood.

It rose.

She climbed onto its back, her long limbs folding over the creature’s frame. Her hands gripped the thick fur, holding steady. Her white hair flowed behind her like a silver banner, trailing in the wind.

The Beast snarled—not at her.

At the path ahead.

At the scent.

Atticus.

It reared up with a roar—a sound so thunderous it shook the trees—and then bolted forward, tearing through the woods like a wrathful storm unleashed.

Riversong held fast.

Together, they surged forward—a river of shadow and fury, crashing through the world with only one destination.

Retribution.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The waves crashed against the reef in slow, rolling thunder. A pale mist clung to the salt-soaked cliffs—somewhere between dawn and memory—while gulls wheeled overhead, too distant to disturb the silence.

And there, slicing across the crest of a massive swell like a blade through silk—

Ephraim.

Or so the sea would swear.

She stood balanced with effortless grace on a curved board of black-lacquered driftwood, etched with old sigils—water trailing behind her in shimmering spirals. Her coat flared behind her like a banner of war and theater, the wind catching it just so. One hand was lifted lazily, fingers outstretched, teasing the air as the wave obeyed.

She was laughing.

A sharp, wild sound, more wind than voice. Not cruel—but not kind either. The kind of laugh that made the ocean listen.

She rode the wave like it owed her something.

And maybe it did.

Another wave coiled behind her—twisting, alive, unnatural. It shimmered in ways no ordinary tide should, reflecting too many colors, rippling with intention. The entire current seemed to shift at her whim, turning with the curl of her wrist as she spun across the water's surface in a wide arc.

“Come on now,” she called, grinning over her shoulder at no one. “I know you’re watching.”

Her voice was Ephraim’s. Smooth. Confident. But the cadence was wrong—Too self-satisfied.

Atticus.

He crouched low, dragging one hand through the wave as he twisted back toward shore, water rising beneath him in a glassy column—lifting him higher, spiraling, sending him rocketing down the face of a massive surge. The board stayed beneath him like it feared falling.

As he reached the shallows, he threw a hand forward—and the entire wave collapsed behind him, crashing upward into a perfect pillar of water, sculpted into a towering, faceless figure of seafoam and current.

It held for a breath. Two.

Then exploded outward into mist, vanishing like it had never been there.

Atticus stepped off the board, now barefoot in ankle-deep surf. The disguise flickered—just for a moment—as droplets of water ran down his cheek. His smile widened.

“That should get their attention,” he murmured.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Atticus wanted attention?

He got it.

From the tree line came a sound no ocean could swallow—a feral, bone-deep scream that split the morning quiet like a blade through tide. The woods shuddered as the Beast emerged, tearing through branches and undergrowth, shadow trailing behind it like a wave of its own.

A storm given form.

It crashed through the trees—horns snapping bark from trunks, maw flaming, breath ragged with fire and hate. The air warped around it, heat seething from its lungs like smoke from a forge. It didn’t slow.

Didn’t hesitate.

Sand exploded beneath its paws as it hit the shoreline at full speed, hooves gouging deep into the earth.

Riversong clung to its back, wind tearing at her white hair, coat rippling behind her like sea-silk. She held fast to the Beast’s thick fur and the grip of her wooden staff, her focus locked ahead.

Then—her breath caught.

Eyes narrowed.

“Ephraim?” she whispered, shaken.

But the Beast didn’t pause.

Its eyes were not fooled.

It saw him.

Atticus.

And it charged.

A roar tore from its throat—deep, distorted, blistering with fury. Flames flickered between its jagged teeth as it opened its jaws wide, a furnace of wrath igniting behind its throat.

The air shimmered.

Then—

It breathed.

A blast of molten heat erupted from the Beast’s mouth—pure fire and shadow spiraling across the beach, aimed straight for the mimic standing in the surf.

Atticus had asked for their attention.

Now the wrath had come to answer.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Atticus caught the sound first—wrong. Ancient. A sound no one should ever hear twice.

His stolen eyes—Ephraim’s—turned sharply toward the tree line just as it exploded into chaos.

His breath caught.

The Beast.

His grin faltered.

"Ohhh no," he muttered, too amused to be terrified, too smart not to run.

The monster barreled into view, a tidal wave of horn and hate, eyes blazing, jaws open. Fire roared toward him, the ground curling beneath the heat.

Atticus's eyes went wide.

"Absolutely not."

And with a whip-crack of motion, he leapt backward—onto the water.

The sea surged beneath him, answering like an old friend. A current coiled, bent, then launched.

BOOM.

He shot forward across the surface like a bullet from a cannon, skimming the water on a spiral of controlled tide. A grin broke across his stolen face as he twisted through a crashing wave, cloak flaring like a banner behind him.

“COME ON THEN, YOU MISERABLE DOG!” he howled back over his shoulder, laughter bleeding into the spray.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Riversong coughed as flame and debris sent a wave of scorched sand curling through the air. Dust veiled the world in heat-haze. She shielded her eyes with one arm, still astride the Beast as it snarled beneath her, muscles bristling with rage.

The Beast’s head snapped toward the water—eyes burning, breath hissing, another guttural roar tearing from its throat.

Riversong exhaled slow.

“Steady,” she murmured, voice low but firm, her hand tightening in the beast’s thick fur. “We’ll get him. Together.”

The air shimmered with pressure.

Then—plip plip plip—raindrops fell, gentle and cool, scattering against her shoulders.

Rippletail appeared midair, tail wagging like a banner of defiance.

“Yeah! Let's do this!” he squeaked, bounding in place. “I want to help!”

His little paws stretched wide before his form dissolved into a spinning puddle of glimmering water—sweeping upward, coating the head of Riversong’s staff. The crystals ignited beneath it, pulsing with energy as Rippletail’s spirit flowed through them.

She looked down at the staff, eyes soft.

Then—focused.

Atticus skimmed the water ahead, laughing, mocking, flying across the surf like he owned it.

Not for long.

Riversong's grip shifted. Her heels pressed into the Beast’s sides.

He reared—roaring like a tempest set loose—before charging forward again, paws and hooves thundering across the shoreline, then onto the sea itself.

Wherever the Beast stepped, the water rippled on top beneath him—rippling, glowing beneath his weight.

Riversong held tight, her hair streaking behind her like a silver comet. She raised her staff high—its tip crackling with Rippletail’s swirling waterlight—then slashed it downward.

A blade of water arced from the sea, sharp and sudden.

It raced forward like a liquid spear, aimed straight at the back of Atticus’s stolen form.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Atticus heard it before he saw it.

A change in the air.

The pressure dipped. Magic shifted. Something coalesced behind him—water shaped like intention.

His smile flickered.

"Ah," he muttered, glancing back, hair whipping in the wind—Ephraim’s hair, not his. But it moved with his arrogance now, carried by stolen grace. “They brought backup.”

The sea behind him lifted—a blade, cresting unnaturally fast, glinting with magic and moonlight.

His eyes widened.

Then he grinned.

“Yes!” he shouted, manic joy in his voice as he kicked the board sideways, flipping it underwater—his form vanishing in a flash of foam just before the blade sliced through where he’d been.

Silence.

Then—

FWOOSH!

He burst out of the sea sideways, board twirling in a full 360° spin, water curling in a tight spiral around him. He carved into the next wave like a scythe, leaving behind a tail of bioluminescent shimmer.

"Try again!" he called over his shoulder, voice dripping with mockery.

---

1v1 Chase System: “Race of Wrath”​

Objective:​

Be the first to reach 60 Distance Points (DP). Each round, both characters roll to determine how far they progress in the chase.

The Core Roll:​

• Each player rolls a d10 at the start of a round.
• The number rolled = the Distance Points (DP) gained for that round.
• Keep a running total of your Distance Points.

Speed Boosts / Momentum Events:​

At milestones (10, 30, 50 DP), players may trigger optional narrative boosts:

• A magical surge
• A trick or terrain advantage
• A moment of clarity/fury/etc.

This doesn’t affect the roll numerically but gives narrative flavor or creative license (e.g. a double backflip dodge, summoning terrain, etc.).

Interrupts​

---

If one player rolls a 10, they may attempt an Attack the next round.

The opponent must roll a 6 higher to dodge or counter (DM/narrative decides effect).

---

Victory Condition:​

First to reach 60 DP is the winner and catches (or escapes) the other.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The Beast growled low—water and shadow crashing beneath each stride as it galloped across the sea, each step sending sprays of blackened foam into the air. Its muscles rippled with fury, its breath hot, ragged.

Riversong leaned forward, soaked from the spray, salt and wind tangling her long white hair. She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Her focus stayed sharp, locked ahead.

Rippletail, on the other hand, was thrilled.

The little spirit squeaked with delight, spinning in the water that spiraled around the staff, riding every splash like it was a game.

The Beast roared again—deep and guttural—then lunged, pushing itself harder. Faster. Closing the gap.

And then—

They passed him.

Just ahead of Atticus now.

As they surged by, Riversong turned just enough to cast a glance over her shoulder—graceful, composed, utterly unimpressed.

She gave a lazy salute with two fingers and the faintest smirk—a mother’s smirk—sharp and knowing.

Rippletail’s head popped from the swirling water coiled at the top of her staff just long enough to stick out his tongue.

No words.

Just challenge.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Atticus skidded hard along the edge of the waterline, the stolen grace of Ephraim’s form twisting mid-air as the wave crested beneath him. Spray arced upward like shattered glass as his board slammed back down with a crack of control. His eyes widened—first with disbelief, then something far more dangerous:

Excitement.

“Well now,” he breathed, laughing, voice like silk dipped in static. “Someone’s not just here to dance."

Then Riversong looked back—just enough to send that smirk, that little wave of hers, the kind that hit like a dagger wrapped in manners.

Atticus clicked his tongue.

“Ohoho—you little menace.”

Then Rippletail popped out.

Stuck out his tongue.

Atticus reeled like he’d been shot. He gripped the edges of the board, snarling through a grin. “Okay, you glorified water balloon—let’s see how you like this.”

He rose slightly, flexing his hands. The water beneath him surged—his magic twisted it, warping it into shape. A coiling whirlpool spun under him, lifting him briefly before exploding behind him like a rocket. (Milestone!)
His board tore across the surf like a knife across glass—

But as he flew forward—he spun, sharply, and cast his hand backward.

From the turbulence left in his wake, a massive geyser erupted—angled, spiraling, aimed straight at the Beast’s path like a wall of boiling force. (Interrupt declared: You must roll 6+ next round or lose 1d4 DP!)

“Try walking on this, you angry carpet!”

Atticus surfed forward, laughing wildly, spinning once mid-air as the board twisted beneath his stolen hooves.