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

[scantilycladsnail]

Karn exhaled sharply through her nose, fingers tightening just slightly around the golden goblet in her grasp. Her posture did not shift, her expression did not falter, but for the first time since they had stepped into her hall, her attention truly settled on Mordecai.

She had dismissed him before.

Not because he was weak—no, she was not foolish enough to assume that—but because he was a man. And in her world, men did not speak to her like this. Men did not sit at her table and snarl like wolves in silk.

Biting words.

She tilted her head, the flicker of candlelight catching the sharp contours of her face, her painted lips curving into something that might have been amusement if it weren’t so laced with disdain.

“Very well then,” she said smoothly, her voice rolling off her tongue like honey laced with venom. “I appreciate your perspective on how I’m running things.”

A slow, deliberate sip of wine. A pause. The unspoken message that she had not, in fact, appreciated anything he had said.

“We’ll agree to disagree,” she continued, setting the goblet down with a soft clink, her rings tapping against its surface. “I acknowledge your Kingdom’s presence, and I suppose you have a certain way of doing things.” Her voice was light, disinterested, almost airy—almost. But her golden eyes were sharp, calculating.

“Even if I find them to be incorrect.”

A small, measured smile followed the words, like a dagger slid effortlessly between ribs.

She leaned back in her chair, finally shifting the weight of her attention fully toward Mordecai. “ You have a city of your own making, where Riftkin are given a place and men such as yourself wield power in ways that… well, let’s just say I find it unusual.”

She lifted a hand, gesturing vaguely in the air as if the topic itself were a passing amusement. “But that is your way, is it not? Yours and hers.” Her gaze flickered—just for a moment—toward Ephraim before settling back on him, studying him as if he were something new. Something intriguing.

A pause. A slight inhale.

“There is another matter I would like to attend to,” she said, her voice shifting, settling into something smoother, something more measured. “An exchange of sorts. To foster a relationship between our Kingdoms.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai did not blink. Did not shift. But the weight of his gaze sharpened, something colder settling behind his red eyes. His fingers curled idly against the goat skull atop his cane, a slow, deliberate movement, the only sign that anything Karn had said had even registered.

Then, a sharp exhale—something close to amusement, but laced with something far sharper. “Fostering.” The word rolled off his tongue like a curse. “Now that is rich.”

His head tilted slightly, his smirk more a baring of teeth than an expression of humor. “Tell me, Karn. At what point in this conversation did you assume we sought to be fostered by you?”

A pause. His gaze flickered briefly to the wine she had barely sipped, then back to her. “You speak of our city as though it is an experiment. A curiosity. Something to be studied from a distance, observed like a beast pacing behind glass. But make no mistake.” His voice dropped into something lower, something steadier—something final.

“We are not your subjects. We are not your lesser kingdom, waiting for guidance, waiting for approval. Umbrafane is not a fledgling empire seeking a mother’s hand to guide it. It is a force. It is a declaration. And you?” He let the moment stretch, let her feel the weight of his words. “You are a ruler who has yet to accept that your reign is no longer the center of this world.”

His tail flicked once, the only outward sign of his growing distaste. “And now, after sneering at our Riftkin, dismissing the history and the lessons, you wish to speak of fostering? That is the problem with rulers like you, Karn.” A smirk, razor-thin and knowing. “You mistake condescension for diplomacy. You believe that because you have built walls, you have built security. That because you have declared dominion, you have achieved control.”

His fingers drummed once against the cane, the polished bone catching in the flickering candlelight. “You sit upon your throne and watch Ephraim and I as though we are simply two halves of something fragile, something waiting to be tested. But let me tell you what we are.”

A pause. A slow inhale. And then, his words landed like a stone dropped into still water.

“Ephraim is Vengeance. I am Wrath. We are not halves. We are the balance, the force that moves forward, unyielding, unshaken. And we will not entertain illusions of subordination. Least of all from you.”

He leaned back, his grip still firm on his cane, his voice dropping into something almost casual, but no less edged. “But do tell, Karn. What is it you think you have to offer us?”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim watched Karn closely, her violet gaze unwavering, unshaken by the queen’s dismissals, her skepticism, her sharp words. She had let Mordecai speak, let him strip away Karn’s illusions piece by piece, let him challenge her throne with a presence that most would not dare. But now, the shift had come. A moment of pause. A moment where Karn’s bitterness did not sharpen into another blade, but settled into something… measured.

A slow exhale from Karn, a flicker of something in her eyes—irritation, calculation, perhaps something she would never name aloud. She held Ephraim’s gaze for a moment longer before she tipped her head, signaling toward Eoghan with a subtle nod.

He stepped away without hesitation, vanishing into the hall beyond the heavy doors.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken weight. Karn did not look at Mordecai, nor did she look at Ephraim as she lifted her goblet, turning it idly between her fingers, the deep red liquid swirling lazily within. When she spoke again, her tone had changed—not softer, not yielding, but something closer to… control. Tempered. Calculated.

“Do show some temperance,” she mused, her lips curling at the edges. “For once, I am not here to wage a battle of words.”

The doors opened again.

Eoghan stepped inside, and with him, a young boy.

The child was slight but not fragile, standing just beside the archer, his posture straight but careful, like a creature that had been trained to stand tall even when uncertain. He was not much different in age than Ephraim and Mordecai’s own children—ten years old, perhaps a little older. His feathers, soft and downy at the edges, held the hues of dusk—deep grays blending into gold-tinged brown, an inheritance from both his mother and his father. But the sharp glint of intelligence in his golden eyes, the way he glanced at them with both eagerness and hesitation, that was his own.

“This is my son,” Karn said, standing from her seat with the slow, deliberate grace of a woman who knew how to command a room without force. “Calabasas.”

Ephraim studied the shift in Karn’s voice, the way she said the name without grandeur, without affection—but not without weight.

“There is a traditional Dunemire rite of passage,” Karn continued, her eyes briefly meeting Eoghan’s, an unspoken acknowledgment, a history not worth speaking aloud. “For boys. A test of their worth, of their place...ability to navigate the world, and he,” she exhaled, as if the next words pained her, “has taken quite the interest in Umbrafane.”

The bitterness in her tone was unmistakable, but she did not deny it.

The boy took a step forward, standing beside Eoghan, who gave them both a polite bow of the head—a silent offering of respect, of formality, of understanding that this was not simply a gift, not simply a trade.

Karn’s fingers drummed once against the stem of her goblet. “He has read your scriptures,” she admitted, her voice tightening just slightly. “In fact, he was the first one to bring them to me.”

That, more than anything, caught Ephraim’s attention.

“If nothing else,” Karn continued, “he asked to meet you.”

The child did not fidget. Did not shift. But there was something in the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides—uncertainty, nerves, perhaps even anticipation.

Karn exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders back slightly, as if shaking off the last remnants of hesitation. “ I have sought to ask if you would take him into your city. Under your care. Until he is ready to return to me.”

Another pause. Then, a sharp inhale, a shift, an offer that did not come lightly.

“And in exchange,” Karn said, “I am willing to offer shared protection, particularly for his sake.”

Karn did not falter.

“If your scriptures were to be true,” she said, “if this war you claim to see in the distance is not just old echoes and wasted ink, then you will need many men. And I will ensure that you have them. I am a Queen of my word.”

A promise.

A contract.

An understanding that this was not about faith, not about belief, but about power.

Karn was not a fool. She may have dismissed their visions, their history, their Riftkin, but she had not dismissed their strength. She had not ignored the slow, creeping inevitability that change was coming, whether by gods, by war, or by the unseen forces that had shaped the world before. And in this moment, she was not speaking as a skeptic. She was speaking as a ruler.

A mother.

A strategist.

And she was wagering her own blood in the process.

Ephraim’s fingers traced the edge of the script still in her hands. Slowly, carefully, she lifted her eyes to Karn’s and then to Mordecai to gauge a reaction.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai’s first instinct was to refuse. To sneer at Karn’s sudden willingness to play diplomat, to strip her words bare and expose what she truly feared. But something held him still.

A boy.

Feathers dusk-colored, golden eyes sharp, standing firm beside the one who had once loosed an arrow in Ephraim’s direction.

And for a moment, he was looking at someone else.

A child in the ruins of a world long gone. A young wounded Ashen he had let walk free, only to later see what he had become. A mistake. A regret. A wound that had festered. Wrath coiled in his chest, the old anger lapping at his ribs, whispering—

"You let one go before. And what did it cost you?"

Mordecai exhaled slowly through his nose, his grip flexing against his cane. His red gaze flickered away from Karn, away from Eoghan, away from the unspoken contract of war she dangled before them.

And settled on the boy.

"You brought her the scriptures." His voice was steady, unreadable. "Tell me, then. What did you learn?"

His question cut through the tension like a blade pressed delicately to skin—not enough to draw blood, but enough to be felt.

He did not look at Karn. He did not look at Eoghan. This moment was not for them.

Mordecai watched the boy.

"Go on," he murmured, voice edged in something both sharp and knowing. "If you have read them, if you have understood them—then tell me, what did they tell you? What interests you?"

There was no decision yet. No offer of acceptance, no outright rejection.

Because if there was even a chance—even the smallest flicker of something real behind those eyes—then perhaps this time, he would not make the same mistake.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Callabassas hesitated, his golden eyes flickering between Karn and Mordecai, uncertainty written in the slight shift of his posture. For a moment, he glanced back at his mother, searching for permission—but Karn only rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand, clearly growing tired of the theatrics.

The boy straightened, swallowing down whatever nerves had crept up his throat. He was here. Standing in front of them. Not just names in ink, not just stories passed between cautious hands. Mordecai. Ephraim. Wrath. Vengeance.

And they were waiting for his answer.

He clenched his hands briefly at his sides, as if to ground himself, then took a steadying breath. When he spoke, his voice was clear—not timid, not rehearsed, but full of something genuine. Something eager.

“I don’t think I’ve gotten to read everything yet,” he admitted, his words spilling out quickly, like he had too much to say and not enough time to say it. “The texts come in pieces—sometimes out of order—so I don’t know if I understand it all. But I read about the Augur, about how you and Ephraim stood before the Primordials.” His eyes flickered toward Ephraim briefly before settling back on Mordecai. “And I read about the Chronosphere… how time used to be something different, how it was supposed to end, but Wrath refused.”

His fingers curled slightly at his sides, not from fear, but from excitement.

“And I read about Mercy,” he continued, voice quieter, more thoughtful. “How she became Vengeance, how she chose it—how she never let herself be erased.” He glanced at Ephraim again, reverence flickering in his gaze. “And how you both—Wrath and Vengeance—stood against time itself.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his mind moving too fast for his words to catch up.

“But…” he started, frowning a little, as if trying to fit his thoughts into the right shape. “What I liked the most—what made the most sense to me—was Wrath.”

Callabassas hesitated for only a second before pressing on.

“I know Wrath protects,” he said, his voice brimming with quiet certainty. “I know Wrath isn’t just about fire and fury—he’s about us. About Kin. I know he fought for us, that he made the Riftkin not to be monsters, but to be free. That he left them here so that Kin could learn, so we could understand, so we could build something together instead of being afraid of things we don’t know.”

His shoulders lifted slightly, then fell, as if bracing himself.

“And I know Wrath isn’t for me,” he said, voice smaller but no less firm. “Wrath isn’t for people like me—it’s for the ones who deserve it.”

Callabassas took another breath. “Wrath isn’t just rage. It isn’t just punishment. It’s kind.” He lifted his chin slightly, emboldened. “Wrath doesn’t just destroy things—it protects them. It defends what’s important. And I think… I think that’s why people don’t understand it. They only see the fire. Not what it’s keeping safe.”

His lips pressed together briefly before he added, softer, more to himself than to them—

“And I think that’s what I want to understand more than anything.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai watched Callabassas as he spoke—his posture, the way his words tumbled forward with raw conviction, the way his golden eyes flickered with something unpolished but real. He listened, unmoving, watching not just the boy, but the moment itself.

And then, as if drawn by some unseen tether, the past stirred.

That crate. The child inside. The scent of blood, the quiet, terrified gasps of something half-wild, something abandoned. A boy who had been discarded. A boy who had once looked up at him with the same eyes, pleading without words to be understood. To be given a chance.

Mordecai exhaled sharply—but it was not anger. It was something colder. Something clear.

His grip flexed once against his cane before he leaned back slightly in his chair, tilting his head as he regarded Callabassas.

"You say Wrath isn’t for people like you. That it’s for the ones who deserve it." His voice was smooth, slow, letting the words settle before he gave a slight nod. “Interesting.”

His red gaze slid, deliberately, to Karn. He did not hide it. He did not soften it. He wanted her to see.

And then, just as deliberately, he looked back at the boy.

"Yet, you’ve already acknowledged truth." His voice carried something different now—not quite approval, but something close. Recognition. "Even if it is something you’re still exploring, you have that spark in you."

He glanced briefly to the ceiling, as if contemplating, before continuing.

"Wrath watches. Always. He has seen Kin rise, fall, destroy, and build. But do you know what you’re missing, boy?" His red eyes flickered slightly. "Kin inspire him, too."

A beat. A shift.

"You should not look down upon yourself at such a young age." Mordecai’s voice remained measured, but there was weight behind it, the kind of weight that demanded to be heard. "You already show knowledge. A desire to learn. An acknowledgment."

He paused just long enough.

"More than—" His gaze cut back to Karn. "—others."

A single shrug. A deliberate, languid motion. One that did not need to be spoken to be understood. He knew it irritated her. And Mordecai, and Wrath, did not care.

Let Karn test their patience. Let her test their Wrath.

His attention returned to Ephraim, a brief, silent exchange passing between them before he looked at Callabassas once more.

"If you would like to explore and understand the knowledge of Umbrafane—the truth of Wrath and Vengeance, of history, of what came before—then we will not turn you away."

A pause. Then, his voice lowered, shifting into something old, something that belonged to no single kingdom, but to the echoes of time itself.

"Umbrae agnoscunt et recipiunt eos qui quaerunt et aperiuntur."

The shadows acknowledge and welcome those who seek and open themselves.

His red eyes gleamed, a flicker of something knowing, something absolute.

"Mold your own mind. Walk your own path. And if you truly seek to understand—then step forward, and do so with purpose."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Callabassas hesitated for only a moment—just long enough for Karn to see it, to let that flicker of doubt tighten her jaw, before he took a step forward.

Not reckless. Not eager.

Purposeful.

His golden eyes held onto Mordecai’s as he moved, shoulders drawn back, hands clenched briefly before he forced them to relax. He didn’t look at his mother. He didn’t look at Eoghan.

"I want to understand," he said, voice steady but young, full of something earnest and raw. "I don’t want to just read it—I want to see it. To know what Wrath and Vengeance have built, to hear the things people are too afraid to say out loud."

He swallowed again, then did something neither Karn nor Eoghan could have expected.

He knelt.

Not in submission. Not in the way one would kneel before a queen. But in acknowledgment.

"I seek understanding," he said, the words sounding almost like an echo of something much older than himself. "And I step forward, as you said—with purpose."

---

Karn’s nails dug into the arm of her chair.

It would have been so easy to sneer. To rip the boy back to her side and remind him that he was hers—that his blood was hers, that his home was hers.

But instead, she exhaled sharply, leaning back, her head tilting to the side as she watched. Studied.

And oh, how it grated on her.

Mordecai was deliberate in his movements, in his words, in his gaze. She saw what he did. The weight of his stare when it slid over her, when he spoke of knowledge, of acknowledgment, of more than others. A jab, subtle but sharp. An insult masked as truth.

Fine. Let him have his moment. Let him believe his truths were absolute.

She let the silence stretch, the tension simmer, let her expression betray nothing.

"Well," she mused, her voice lazy, rich with amusement, "I suppose that answers that, doesn’t it?" She glanced toward Callabassas, her fingers lifting in a loose gesture. "Do remember, little one, that you will always belong to Dunemire—no matter how much your curiosity carries you elsewhere."

A pause. Then, she turned her gaze back to Mordecai, her smile sharpening. "But for now… he is yours to mold."

She leaned forward, elbows resting against the table, amusement dancing behind her sharp eyes. "Consider this my investment in your so-called future."

Then, casually, effortlessly, she lifted her goblet, took a single sip of wine, and exhaled through her nose.

---

The air outside the council chamber was sharp with the cold bite of Dunemire’s winds, carrying the scent of sand and stone, of a kingdom carved from nothing but Karn’s will and the blood of those who had failed her. Ephraim inhaled, slow and measured, the weight of the meeting settling into her chest.

It was done.

Callabassas walked beside her, his steps lighter than she expected, yet still careful. Thoughtful. He did not speak, did not fidget. He simply moved—out of Karn’s domain, away from the walls that had shaped him, into the unknown that now waited for him in Umbrafane.

She watched him from the corner of her eye, this child who was not hers but now was. Not by blood. Not by duty. But by something else.

Something right.

Her tail flicked once, ears twitching against the wind.

Two daughters. One stillborn.

The prophecy had warned them. Had whispered of the life that would never be, of the hollow space left in its absence. And she had felt it. Still felt it.

It had been years, and yet—sometimes, late in the quiet of night, when Mordecai’s breathing was slow and steady beside her, when the city walls felt too still, she would feel the ghost of what could have been. A presence, unformed, but felt. A child who had not taken her first breath. A life that had slipped away before it could ever begin.

And now—here stood Callabassas. A boy neither stolen nor forced upon them, but given. Chosen.

By Karn, perhaps. By fate, most likely. By himself, most of all.

Her fingers brushed briefly over the hilt of her blade as she glanced toward Mordecai. He had been quiet since they left the chamber, his own thoughts pulling deep beneath the surface. Wrath lingered in his frame, watching, waiting, considering. Measuring.

Ephraim did not need to ask what he was thinking.

She already knew.

She looked forward again, gaze locking onto their waiting courier at the gates of Karn’s stronghold, the sigil of Umbrafane etched into the fabric of its banners.

A returning home.

Callabassas took a breath beside her, his fingers flexing at his sides, the only sign of nerves he let slip. She did not reach for him. Did not offer comfort.

He had chosen this path.

And Vengeance did not coddle the willing.

"You step into a world that does not wait for you," she said, voice calm but firm as they neared the gates. "You have read of it. Now you will see it. And it will change you."

Callabassas glanced up at her then, something flickering in his golden eyes—not fear, not hesitation.

Readiness.

And Ephraim, for the first time in a long time, felt something settle in her chest.

Yes.

This felt right.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai stepped outside Dunemire’s walls, the cold bite of the northern winds pressing against his coat as their waiting carriage came into view. It was unmistakably Umbrafane.

Dark. Gothic. A presence all its own.

Its lacquered black frame gleamed under the dimming light, the sigil of Wrath and Vengeance etched into its design—not ostentatious, not begging to be acknowledged, but simply there. A declaration without words.

The donkeykin warrior stationed at the front gave a nod, the reins firm in his hands before stepping down, moving to open the doors. “Lord Mordecai. Lady Ephraim.” His voice was steady, respectful, but never groveling—Umbrafane did not foster blind servitude.

Mordecai stepped forward first, his hand resting lightly against Ephraim’s as he helped her into the carriage—a motion so fluid, so instinctual, that he did not think about it. Then Callabassas, the boy stepping in carefully, still adjusting to the weight of his own decision.

And finally, Mordecai himself.

The donkeykin warrior gave one final check, ensuring all was in place before returning to the front, flicking the reins with a firm command. The horses lurched forward, hooves clipping against the packed earth, the city of Dunemire shrinking behind them.

Mordecai sat in silence, feeling the rhythmic jostle of the carriage as they left Karn’s domain behind.

He did not look at Callabassas immediately. Instead, he looked at Ephraim. The way her violet gaze flickered, something unreadable passing behind her expression.

Then, he looked at the boy.

The prophecy.

Three children. One lost before she could take her first breath.

He did not speak of them often. Perhaps because he had grieved the loss child before they ever arrived. But there was something in the way Ephraim looked at Callabassas, something quiet yet undeniable.

And Mordecai? When he looked at Callabassas, he saw a flicker of something else. A memory. A child in a crate. Wounded. Wild-eyed. Lost. The shadow of a past that had long since hardened into something irreversible.

His grip adjusted on his cane, fingers tapping once against the skeletal goat head.

Then, finally—he spoke.

"What you seek, we will teach you." His voice was even, measured. "If you have questions, ask. But know that silence is not weakness." A pause. A knowing glance. "Observing. Calculating. Listening." A slow nod. "Knowledge does not always come from the loudest voice in the room."

He leaned back slightly, eyes flicking toward the window as the northern landscape passed them by. Then, a shift—just enough to let the tension ease, just enough to let something lighter slip through.

"We have two daughters." His tone was smoother, the edges less sharp. "Castara and Rhea."

He let the words sit for a moment before the faintest chuckle left him—low, quiet, but there.

"They will keep you very busy."

There was amusement in his voice, but not empty amusement. It was a warning. A statement of fact.

Then, he met Ephraim’s gaze briefly before returning to Callabassas.

"This is your path now," he said simply. "Yours to mold."

A beat. Then—

"If there is anything Ephraim or myself can do to aid that path, you need only say the word."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Callabassas fidgeted, his fingers tightening around the fabric of his pants as the carriage swayed beneath them. He glanced at Mordecai, then at Ephraim, then down at the floor. He wasn’t scared—at least, not of them. But saying the words out loud made his chest feel tight, like something big was pressing down on it.

Still, he had already stepped forward. No turning back now.

His shoulders straightened, and he lifted his chin just a little.

"I, um…" He swallowed, trying to find the right words. "I wanna say sorry. About my mom."

The words felt weird in his mouth, but he kept going.

"I know how she talks. How she looks at you, at Umbrafane, like it’s just… I don’t know. Like it’s something she has to figure out, or keep an eye on, or—" He huffed, shaking his head. "Like it’s not real. But it is real. I know that."

His hands tightened into little fists in his lap, but he wasn’t mad. Not really. It was just frustrating.

"She’s tough. She built Dunemire when no one else could. She keeps us safe, she keeps everything running. And she loves me. She just… doesn’t say it. Not out loud. But I know she does."

His throat felt tight, but he forced himself to keep talking. "Even when we don’t agree. Even when she doesn’t listen."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai listened, his red eyes sharp but unreadable as the boy spoke. He did not interrupt, did not react immediately—only watched. The way Callabassas’ fingers tightened against his lap, the way his words spilled out unevenly, not from fear, but from something heavier.

A boy trying to explain the world. Trying to reconcile what he knew with what he had been told.

Mordecai leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose, his grip adjusting on his cane. He would not sugarcoat the truth. But he would not shatter the boy’s foundation, either.

"She built Dunemire. She keeps you safe. She loves you." The words came smoothly, with an almost lazily drawn patience. Then, a slight tilt of his head.

"And yet, here you are."

He let that sit for a moment. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just fact.

"Your mother sees the world in measures of power and control. What she cannot claim, she watches. What she cannot control, she dismisses. And what she does not understand—" A slow blink. “She fears.”

His fingers drummed idly against the cane’s skeletal head.

"She has convinced herself that Umbrafane is an obstacle, not an inevitability." His smirk was thin, pointed. "She will learn. One way or another."

Then, he regarded Callabassas again, his posture shifting slightly, less rigid now. Not softer, not quite—but something else.

"And yet, she let you go."

Not forced. Not abandoned. Let.

"That tells me something." His voice was quieter now, his red gaze steady. "Either she wants you to learn something she cannot teach you… or she is afraid of what you will find."

His head tilted slightly, studying the boy.

"I wonder, Callabassas—do you think she fears what you’ll learn?"

Not a test. Not a trap. Just a question. A door, left slightly open.

He tapped his cane once against the floor of the carriage. A punctuation. A shift.

"You do not need to apologize for her." The words were firm, deliberate. "You are not her keeper."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim watched Callabassas closely, her violet gaze unreadable at first. The boy spoke with certainty, but she could see the flickers of doubt beneath it—the way he gripped his own words like they might slip away from him if he wasn’t careful.

She understood that feeling.

The carriage rocked gently beneath them as it moved, the rhythmic sound of hooves against packed earth filling the silence that stretched between them. Outside, the landscape of Dunemire was already shifting into open roads, away from Karn’s looming walls, away from the weight of that throne room and its golden edges.

"So." Her voice was lighter now, her sharp edges dulling just enough to shift the air between them. "That went about as well as I expected."

Which was to say—horribly.

Her lips curled in something that was not quite a smirk, but close. "She hates you, you know." She directs to Mordecai, irrelevant to Callabassas sitting there.

It wasn’t a question.

Ephraim leaned back against the seat, letting the weight of their departure settle properly. Karn had been playing a game, one she thought she had control over, but she had underestimated them.

“She thought she could make us entertain her,” Ephraim mused, her tone almost amused. “She thought she had the upper hand.” A slow blink, her fingers tapping idly against her knee. “I don’t think she’s used to losing.”

Then, her gaze flicked toward him again, something warmer in the way she looked at him now.

"You enjoyed that," she said, not accusing, just knowing.

And of course he had. He hadn’t just fought Karn—he had outmaneuvered her, with words alone. And that was something he lived for.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai let out a slow exhale, tilting his head back slightly against the carriage seat. “Oh, another person hating me? How dreadful.” His voice was smooth, drawn out with lazy amusement as he lifted a hand and gave an idle flick through the air, dismissive. Not at Ephraim, not at Callabassas—but at the weight of the world’s opinions. “Add them to the list.”

He crossed one leg over the other, fingers tapping idly against his cane, the skeletal goat head cool beneath his palm. But then, a smirk—sharp, knowing, indulgent.

"And that’s the thing," he continued, his red eyes flicking back toward Ephraim. "The moment I get under their skin? I win."

His gaze drifted to his own hands for a moment, flexing his fingers, watching the flicker of candlelight off the tips of his claws. "Because when people like Karn start to show their cracks, when the façade starts to slip—" A playful swat of his tail brushed against Ephraim as he turned fully toward her. "They have already lost."

A pause, then something more deliberate. "She underestimated you, too, my darling."

He let those words settle, let the weight of them sink in, his crimson eyes lingering on her. On Vengeance. Karn had believed this was a game of control, of dominance, of power carefully measured and rationed out. She thought she was dealing with two rulers who could be tested, maneuvered, played.

A mistake.

Mordecai leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow against his knee, voice curling into something lower, something rich with mocking indulgence.

“Karn is the type of woman who sharpens herself against resistance, but the moment she meets something sharper? She flinches.” He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Oh, she’ll never admit it. Not outright. But did you see it? The way her fingers twitched on that goblet? The way her throat tightened before she spoke? The way she let her own son slip from her grip, rather than let us see how desperately she wanted to keep him to herself?”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Karn believes control is power. That if she holds tight enough, clenches her fist just hard enough, nothing will slip through her fingers.” A slow, knowing inhale. "But she forgets—power isn’t about gripping. It’s about knowing when to let go. Wrath and Vengeance know the time.”

Then, finally, he turned his head back toward Ephraim, his smirk widening.

“And that’s why she’ll lose.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim hummed, tilting her head slightly, watching Mordecai with that quiet, assessing gaze of hers. He was enjoying himself. She could see it in the way his smirk curled just a little too sharp, in the way his words dripped with satisfaction. And why shouldn’t he? He had won that encounter.

But Ephraim had seen what happened when you let a wounded beast walk away unchecked.

"You’re right," she said smoothly, shifting slightly in her seat as the carriage rocked beneath them. "She flinched. She tightened her grip too hard, and in doing so, she let something slip through her fingers." Her violet eyes flickered, studying him. "But let's not mistake that for weakness."

A beat. A pause. She let the words settle.

"We thought the same of Poise once."

She exhaled through her nose, her fingers trailing lightly over the fabric of her sleeve. "Karn is not subtle. She is not quiet. But she is just as dangerous. Just as prideful." A small, wry smirk tugged at the edge of her lips. "And prideful people tend to come back for their bruises."

She met his gaze, holding it for a moment before letting her smirk sharpen, something undeniably calculating in the shift of her expression.

"But in the spirit of all this…" she mused, letting the words roll easily off her tongue, deliberately careful in front of Callabassas, "I think we ought to extend a hand, don’t you?"

Ephraim tilted her head, tapping her fingers lightly against the armrest as if she were still considering it, still mulling it over. But she had already decided.

"Let’s send her city a shipment," she said at last, voice light, gracious—but beneath it, there was something else. Something with teeth. "Enough food and Umbrafane delicacies to last them two fortnights. A proper display of partnership."

Ephraim’s smirk deepened, her gaze turning toward the carriage window, watching as the landscape stretched before them.

"Yes," she said, as though the thought had only just fully formed. "A gesture of goodwill. Dropped in the heart of Dunemire for all to see. A reminder of what exists beyond their four walls."

Her fingers drummed lightly against her knee before she let out a slow, mock-thoughtful breath.

"After all," she murmured, the words dripping with sweet, careful malice, "we wouldn’t want them to think we’ve forgotten about them."

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai watched Ephraim carefully, his red eyes flickering with something unreadable. He did not interrupt. Did not challenge. He let her words unfold, let them settle in the air like the slow, curling wisp of a cigar’s final breath.

And then—he smiled.

Not mocking. Not dismissive. Knowing.

“Ah.” A low, indulgent hum, as if savoring the thought, turning it over in his mind. “I see.”

He let the silence stretch, considering. Taking it in. Not offended—far from it. Observant.

"Then it shall be," he said smoothly, waving a hand through the air with an effortless flick of his wrist. "We'll have the items prepared. For—" A pause, a beat, then the smallest, amused twitch of his lips. "The partnership."

He leaned back slightly, pressing himself into the dark velvet of the carriage seat, the steady motion of the wheels beneath them a quiet undercurrent to his thoughts. His gaze flickered out the window for a brief moment, watching the distant horizon shift—then back down to his own hand. Slowly, he turned it over, studying his palm, the carved sigil etched into his skin—a mark of Wrath, of devotion, of something far older than himself.

His thumb ran absently over the lines, then traced the smooth bone of his cane’s handle, the carved goat skull mirroring the brand on his flesh.

"Wrath does love partnerships," he murmured, almost to himself, the words slow, deliberate. He glanced back at Ephraim, something flickering behind his eyes—approval, amusement, something deeper. Vengeance played her game well.

His smirk curled at the edges.

“A gift, then. A show of good faith. A reminder.” He exhaled slowly, shifting the cane in his grasp, tapping the base once against the carriage floor.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim dipped her head slightly, satisfaction curling at the edges of her lips. “Good,” she murmured, her violet eyes flickering with the same quiet amusement that danced in his own. “We’ll have Silvano see to it.”

Of course, Silvano.

It would be an insult to not let him orchestrate this particular spectacle—the rogue, the trickster, the one who made a game of perception. He would ensure that Karn’s people saw exactly what they needed to see. That the shipment was not merely delivered, but displayed. That whispers would spread long before the food even touched their tables. That the generosity of Umbrafane would linger in their mouths far longer than the taste of the delicacies themselves.

Ephraim adjusted in her seat, rolling her shoulders slightly as the carriage rocked over the last stretch of road. The landscape had shifted, the northern cold giving way to something else entirely. The closer they drew to Umbrafane, the more the air itself seemed to recognize them.

Dark spires clawed at the sky in the distance, their silhouettes framed against the dying light. The great walls of the city loomed ahead, not as a prison, not as a fortress of fear, but as a monument. A declaration.

They were home.

As the carriage pulled up to the gates, the towering ebony doors of Umbrafane stood.

"Welcome to Umbrafane." Ephraim directed to Callabassas.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai nodded once, a slow, deliberate motion as his clawed fingers brushed lightly over Ephraim’s hand. "It will happen," he murmured, voice edged with certainty. Silvano would see to it. This was not charity—it was a statement. A game played not with swords, but with perception. And Ephraim understood that better than most.

The carriage passed through Umbrafane’s gates, rolling into the heart of the city they had built. Dark spires loomed overhead, reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers, casting long shadows over the cobblestone streets. Umbrafane was not a refuge for the weak—it was a stronghold for the unwavering.

Eryon’s kin had left their mark, the stone walls of the city bearing the unmistakable craftsmanship of the donkeykin—thick, fortified, built to withstand anything. What had begun as a settlement had grown into something formidable. A city not just standing, but thriving.

Mordecai exhaled slowly, watching as the iron gates of their estate swung open. "Welcome to Umbrafane, indeed."

The carriage rolled to a stop in front of their home, the gothic structure standing as an extension of themselves—dark, elegant, unyielding. Iron fences wreathed in creeping ivy, the moss-covered stone softened only by the careful hands that tended to it.

The donkeykin guard moved efficiently, stepping forward to pull open the door, offering a nod as Mordecai helped Ephraim down, then Callabassas. The boy hesitated only briefly, his golden eyes flickering upward at the towering structure before him. He had read of it. And now, he stood before it.

A home built not on fear, but on choice.

The scent of damp earth and wildflowers lingered in the air, carried from the gardens that wove between the ironwork fencing. And there—seated on a stone bench beneath the ivy-covered trellis—was Riversong.

She had settled into the garden easily, always preferring the touch of living things, the sound of rustling leaves over the weight of iron and stone. Before her, nestled comfortably in the grass, sat two young figures—Castara and Rhea.

Their daughters.

Riversong’s presence had never been forced, never demanded—but wherever their children were, she was never far.

A book rested in her lap, its pages worn, her soft voice carrying through the garden as she read aloud to them. It wasn’t scripture, wasn’t one of Ephraim’s written histories—just a story. Something to occupy restless minds. Something to pass the time.

---

The Camp—A Haven for the Wandering (AKA - What have Jasper and Riversong been up to)

What had once been a nomadic retreat of caravans and wagons—a space meant for free spirits and passing travelers—had become something new.

Riversong and Jasper had never abandoned their way of life, never let the structure of Umbrafane cage them in. But the camp had shifted. It had settled.

The once-scattered wagons and colorful tents had coalesced into a permanent space—a haven within Umbrafane for those who did not wish for stone walls and rigid paths. The Traveler’s Quarter, as some had come to call it, had become a sanctuary for wanderers, storytellers, and traders.

Some stayed only for a night or two, stopping along their journeys to find rest among the winding paths of lantern-lit tents and shared meals over open fires. Others—drawn by the ease of it, by the way Jasper spoke in riddles and wisdom and how Riversong knew every name before it was given—had remained.

Riversong herself had taken a more settled role—not as a leader, not as a ruler, but as a keeper of stories, a guardian of kin who sought something different. And more than anything, as a grandmother.

While Jasper still meandered between his conversations with wandering merchants, still spoke in philosophies that made more sense the less one thought about them, Riversong had devoted herself to helping raise Castara and Rhea.

Not molding them, not shaping them into something else—but guiding them. Watching them. Letting them take root in their own way, just as she always had. Supporting Ephraim and Mordecai.

---

And here, in this garden of Mordecai and Ephraim's home, in the quiet lull of evening, she did just that.

Mordecai’s gaze lingered on them for a moment. A moment that stretched longer than it should have.

Then, finally, he stepped forward.

Home.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Rhea barely let the book close before she bolted forward, her hooves tapping against the stone path as she rushed toward them. Her curls, soft and slightly tousled from the breeze, bounced with each step, and her dress—deep, flowing burgundy, one of her favorites—fluttered around her ankles.

"Mama! Papa!" Her voice was bright, warm, full of something unshakable—love, devotion, the kind of affection that was as effortless as it was eternal.

She launched herself forward, small arms wrapping around Ephraim’s waist first, pressing into her mother’s warmth, tail flicking happily behind her. Her head barely reached past her hip, but it didn’t matter—this was home. She breathed in the familiar scent of her mother’s robes before she tilted her head up, eyes full of unspoken love, adoration.

"You were gone forever." The pout was immediate, delicate, but purposeful. A statement. One designed not to scold, but to ensure they understood. "I had to play with Castara the whole time, and she cheats at cards."

She huffed dramatically, though it was softened by her clear excitement. And then—without missing a beat—she turned, her golden eyes flickering toward Mordecai.

She loved her father. Adored him. But she was far too dignified to throw herself at him the way she did with her mother. Instead, she stepped forward, smoothing the fabric of her dress before reaching for his hand, her smaller fingers wrapping around two of his own.

"I forgive you, though," she announced, her voice sweet, but firm—like she had carefully considered the decision. "But only because you look very handsome today."

A soft giggle, and then her eyes finally landed on the newcomer.

A boy?

Her ears flicked up slightly, golden eyes scanning him, assessing. His feathers, his posture—he wasn’t like them.

She blinked, then tilted her head slightly, curls shifting over her shoulder.

"Who’s this?" A simple question, but curiosity gleamed behind it.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai nodded to Riversong, his red gaze flickering over her for a moment—noticing, always noticing. She carried herself as gracefully as ever, but the years weighed differently now. Slower movements, careful steps. He did not speak of it. There was no need.

Castara, sharp-eyed and ever-observant, had already seen it. Had already moved, her small hand slipping into Riversong’s as if she could anchor her, as if her touch alone could offer strength. A quiet, steady gesture. A choice.

Riversong let it happen.

Together, they moved toward them—slower, measured, unlike Rhea’s immediate burst of warmth.

Castara stood behind her sister, waiting, watching. There was no hesitation in her, only patience.

"Father. Mother. You're home."

The words were simple, but there was meaning behind them. An acknowledgment. A statement of fact. Not an exclamation, not a question—certainty.

She stepped forward, offering Ephraim a soft, brief embrace—not loose, not tight. A moment of recognition before she pulled back, turning her gaze upward to Mordecai.

He chuckled at Rhea’s dramatic declaration, giving a soft nod. "I’m glad we have your forgiveness." His voice carried warmth, the kind that only ever softened for his daughters.

Castara met his gaze, steady, searching. She had always watched him the most, drawn to the way he carried himself, to the way his presence filled a room without force. There was something in him that spoke to her. She wrapped her arms lightly around his leg—a quick, small embrace—before taking a step back.

And then, her attention shifted.

Callabassas.

She studied him the way she studied everything—not with suspicion, not with doubt, but with curiosity. A quiet kind, the kind that did not demand but simply saw.

He was different. Not just one kin. Two.

A mixture of something else.

Castara did not speak immediately, but Mordecai did.

"This is Callabassas," he said, his tone carrying the weight of something more than introduction. "He is from Dunemire. He is here because he, too, is interested in learning of Umbrafane—our history, our future. Wrath and Vengeance."

His gaze swept over his daughters, lingering on Castara. A silent expectation. A trust already placed.

"I trust you two will help with that. Being an example for Callabassas. Welcoming him—not just to Umbrafane, but to our home."

Castara met his gaze, understanding passing between them in a way that did not require words.

Then, finally, she looked to Callabassas, tilting her head just slightly.

"You are a hybrid."

Not cruel. Not dismissive. A statement of fact.

A beat. Then, a small, knowing smile.

"You will like Umbrafane."

Riversong had watched and then gave a soft nod of her head and a gentle smile. "Welcome, Callabassas."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Rhea’s ears flicked up, and her golden eyes widened slightly as she processed Castara’s words.

A hybrid.

Oh! That was interesting! She had never met one up close before!

She turned back toward Callabassas, studying him now with a different kind of enthusiasm—not like Castara’s quiet curiosity, but the wide-eyed, open-faced kind of interest only a seven-year-old could have.

And then—with all the grace of a child who had absolutely no filter—she gasped.

"Ohhh! From Dunemire!" She clapped her hands together, delighted by her own realization. "That means your mom is that scary lady!"

Silence.

Ephraim’s expression did not change.

But Rhea? Rhea did not stop.

"My tutor says she’s the worst!" she continued, completely unaware of the tension she had just summoned into existence. "He said she’d probably kill a man for sneezing too close to her! And that she—”

A pause. A slow blink. Her golden eyes flicked toward Callabassas, as if just now realizing he was involved in this equation.

"—Oh."

She tilted her head slightly, curls bouncing.

"Wait. Are we not supposed to say that?"

Another pause.

Then, she whispered, but in the way children whisper—which is to say, it was not a whisper at all.

"She totally would, though."
Callabassas blinked.

Then, his mouth opened like he wanted to say something—but nothing came out.

His golden eyes flickered betweenRhea, Castara, Riversong, Mordecai, Ephraim—trying to figure out if he had just been insulted, or if he was supposed to agree, or if he was supposed to defend his mother, or—

His claws curled slightly at his sides.

"Uhhh..."

He tried again. Still nothing.

Then, after an awkward pause, he blurted out the only thing his brain could process.

"She wouldn’t kill someone for sneezing!" His voice pitched slightly. "I mean— maybe if they sneezed on her? Or if it was a bad sneeze? Or if she thought it was on purpose?"
Ephraim sighed. A slow, measured thing—not of exasperation, but of inevitability.

Rhea had inherited many things from her parents—sharp instincts, boundless devotion, a heart that burned too brightly. And often, a complete inability to filter her thoughts before they left her mouth.

Ephraim’s violet gaze settled on her youngest daughter, calm, steady.

"Rhea," she said, her voice carrying that signature softness that somehow still managed to silence a room, "perhaps next time, you should consider asking Callabassas about his mother before assuming what your tutor says is the absolute truth."

Rhea’s ears flattened immediately, her posture stiffening—not out of fear, but realization. She knew that tone. That was the “you should have thought that through” tone.

Then, finally, she turned toward Callabassas.

"She is your mother," she acknowledged, her words careful but honest. "And whether we agree with her or not, you do not need to justify her actions to us. Nor do you need to defend her. But," she added, tilting her head just slightly, "you do need to decide what you believe about her for yourself. Not just what you've been told, and not just what you hope to be true."

Her gaze flicked back to Rhea—pointed.

"And that applies to you as well, Rhea."

"Riversong," Ephraim greeted, voice smooth, acknowledging the elder’s ever-present place among them.

She stepped forward, closing the space between them just enough to place a light hand over Riversong’s, a silent exchange of understanding.

"It’s good to see you," Ephraim murmured, her words carrying more meaning than the surface suggested.

Her gaze flicked briefly to the book Riversong had been reading to the girls, the pages still open in her lap. Not scripture. Not prophecy. A simple story.

Ephraim’s lips curved slightly, a rare, softened amusement flickering in her expression. "I hope they haven’t been too much trouble," she added, though she already knew the answer.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Castara exhaled quietly through her nose as she watched her sister’s energy spiral into boundless enthusiasm. She didn’t react, didn’t match Rhea’s excitement, only stood in place, hands resting neatly at her sides. Observing.

Then, she spoke, her voice steady, unimpressed. “Rhea, you're making it worse.” A simple, flat observation.

She shifted her attention to Callabassas, watching the way he seemed uncertain, his golden eyes flickering between all of them, unsure where to settle. Her gaze lingered for a moment longer before she tilted her head slightly, considering something.

Then, finally, she said, "It's okay. Our father would probably do the same if someone breathed too close to him."

Her tone was dry, but not cruel—simply matter-of-fact. Like she had weighed the truth in her mind and decided to present it plainly.

Mordecai exhaled sharply through his nose, not irritated, but knowing. He had already seen it for some time—the way she carried herself, the way her words came measured, precise, uncannily familiar. He scoffed, amusement barely concealed in the sound.

"Castara." His voice was short, but not unkind.

She tilted her head, watching him. "We know you don’t really like people," she stated simply, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Then, after a slight pause, she added with a small shrug, "It’s just the truth."

Mordecai rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. A small, private thing.

"Alright, that’s enough," he muttered, his tone brushing the conversation aside before it could spiral further. He glanced toward Callabassas briefly before shifting his attention back to Castara and Rhea. "Go and help him get set up in the spare room."

Riversong had been watching from where she sat, her violet eyes carrying something knowing, something fond.

“Oh, they’ve been pleasant,” she said, her voice soft with warmth, carrying that ever-present ease of someone who had already seen the tides of time shift too many times to be troubled by small chaos. "They always are. It’s not a problem."

A slight pause.

Then, her lips curled into something amused. "Rhea was very occupied with giving Jasper makeovers. She’s found some more creative ways to braid his hair with flowers and twigs."

She chuckled softly, shaking her head. "She’s still trying to find the right nail color for him, though." A playful glint entered her gaze as she turned toward Mordecai. "It’s a very serious decision, you understand."

She winked.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim sighed contentedly, running her fingers gently through Rhea’s curls, smoothing them down as her daughter basked in the attention. Castara, ever composed, had already taken it upon herself to ensure Callabassas wouldn’t get too lost in their home, her small hand gesturing for him to follow. Sharp, capable. Just like her father.

She glanced toward Riversong, who offered her a small, knowing smile—one that spoke of quiet amusement at the chaos of children and the ease of returning home. Settling in would be simple.

Mordecai, however, was another matter.

Ephraim turned, stepping closer to him, her violet gaze warm but entirely purposeful. He had already begun relaxing, the weight of their journey slipping off his shoulders. Too comfortable.

“Do not forget,” she murmured, tilting her head just slightly.

"Upon our return, we were to select a Seneschal," she continued lightly, her fingers idly brushing the fabric of his sleeve. "A voice for the laborers of Umbrafane. Someone to communicate our intentions while listening to theirs. Silvano has already met with them, and the choices have been narrowed down to three candidates."

She let the pause stretch, just enough to feel deliberate.

"They should be waiting in the Trade District court."

Ephraim smiled.

"I’ll make sure the children are settled in with Riversong." Her voice was soft, casual, effortless. Then, her hand lightly trailed down his arm before she leaned in, just close enough that her next words were meant only for him.

"Would you mind making the trip out there?" A pause—a trap set. Then, the final touch—

"My shadow?"

The pet name was spoken with warmth, teasing, just enough affection to nudge him toward agreement. She wanted to rest, but duty still called.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai leaned into her words, his sharp red eyes flickering over her expression, already knowing exactly what she was doing. She had always been clever—always known how to maneuver him just enough to get what she wanted.

And damn her for it.

He wanted to resist, to brush it off, to say it could wait until morning. But of course, Ephraim had gotten smarter with her words, her approach. She had grown, honed herself sharper, stronger—a reflection of the Vengeance she had fully embraced. And she knew exactly what buttons to press.

“My Shadow.”

The words rang in his ears, warm, deliberate—not just for him, but for Wrath, too.

Mordecai exhaled sharply, a low, irritated growl curling from his throat, but even then, he felt the betrayal.

His tail—his damn tail.

The slow, subtle wag behind him immediately gave him away, a traitorous motion that spoke far louder than his feigned reluctance. He felt it, realized it too late—a rare tell in a man who prided himself on control. His eyes narrowed, and with an annoyed flick of his wrist, he swatted at it, as if sheer force of will would command it to stop.

Ephraim’s smile didn’t change. She had already won.

Mordecai sighed, exhaling his defeat into the night air. His clawed fingers found her arm, a touch not of restraint, but of connection. He traced along the fabric lightly, a moment of indulgence before duty stole him away again.

"It will be done." His voice was soft, but certain.

His gaze flicked toward their home, toward where their daughters had already disappeared inside, where Callabassas would soon settle, where Riversong would be waiting.

"Get them settled." A pause, his grip lingering for just a second longer. "I will return soon."

And with that, Mordecai turned, stepping away from the warmth of home—toward duty once more.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The air in the Trade District Court was thick with the weight of expectation. Not from any overt tension—there was no unrest in the streets, no anxious murmuring of uncertainty—but from the quiet knowledge that change was inevitable. Umbrafane was growing. Expanding. Evolving. And with it came the need for structure, for representation, for something more than sheer will to guide its foundation.

Mordecai stepped into the court hall, his gait measured, his cane tapping against the polished stone floor in a slow, deliberate rhythm. The trade court had been built as a reflection of Umbrafane itself—tall, gothic, imposing, yet functional. The architecture loomed above, grand yet efficient, a testament to the discipline and craftsmanship that had gone into carving the city from nothing.

At the far end, past the gathered merchants and laborers moving about their daily dealings, stood Silvano.

As he continued walking, ascending the steps to the private council chamber that had been arranged for him. The doors closed behind him with a soft click, sealing him away from the bustling world outside. Here, he could think. Here, the next piece of Umbrafane’s foundation would be decided.

Before him, the three dossiers lay neatly arranged atop the long, black-wood council table. The candidates’ names had already been prepared, their strengths and weaknesses laid bare in Silvano’s precise handwriting. They each represented a different path forward—each offering something that could shape the next era of Umbrafane.

But only one would stand beside Wrath and Vengeance as the chosen voice of the laborers.

---

Mern Plumestride
Background:
Born into a prestigious lineage of Flamingokin, Mern’s ancestors thrived in high society before the reset, renowned for their patronage of the arts and diplomacy. Their name carried weight in political circles, known for brokering deals and meditation.

When the world changed, Mern adapted. The kin—workers, traders, those rebuilding society from the ground up—were looking for a voice. He stepped forward and became that voice, transforming the market districts with the strength of the working class. His words resonated. People listened. People followed.


Strengths:

• Beloved by the people – Charismatic, well-spoken, and endlessly charming, Mern has a way of making everyone feel seen and heard. He is effortlessly magnetic, drawing crowds with his theatrical speeches and infectious optimism.
• A champion for the working class – Despite his privileged background, Mern has dedicated himself to advocating for the trades and laborers. He may not have worked the fields or forged steel himself, but he has fought to ensure that those who do are respected and heard.
• A master of rhetoric – Mern knows how to frame change in a way that appeals to all classes.

Weaknesses:

• No firsthand experience in labor or governance – While he understands hardship conceptually, he has never endured it. His knowledge of trade work is theoretical, not practical.
• Too diplomatic for Umbrafane’s realities – Mern believes negotiation and charm can resolve most conflicts, but not every dispute can be smoothed over with words.

Additional Notes:

• Mern has amassed a cult-like following among merchants, artisans, and lower-class laborers. His supporters adore him, often saying: “Mern always listens.” His background makes him an outsider among the hardened tradesmen, but an undeniable symbol of hope for those who believe in a more dignified way forward. He is also a devout worshiper of Wrath/Vengeance and has been seen in the temples many times to give offerings.

---

Orlin Redtail​

• Background:
  Orlin hails from a long line of agricultural merchants—fruit cultivators, specifically—whose orchards have long fed the outskirts of Umbrafane. Unlike his forebears, who focused solely on trade, Orlin turned his family's wealth into political capital. He became known for his sharp business acumen, progressive economic policies, and ability to turn a minor surplus into a thriving economy.
• Strengths:
  
  • Understands supply chains and trade. His background means he deeply comprehends food production, distribution, and pricing models.
  • Has connections. He is well-liked among farmers, merchants—an important asset in a growing city.
  • A natural diplomat. He is charming, good-humored, and effortlessly likeable, with an easy smile and an ability to defuse tension before it escalates.
• Weaknesses:
  
  • Too business-oriented. He prioritizes economics over ideology, which may not align with Wrath and Vengeance’s larger vision.
  • A follower of stability, not change. He prefers things to remain peaceful rather than push for dramatic restructuring.
• Additional Notes:
  Orlin is the safest choice—he would run Umbrafane efficiently and would not cause unrest. However, his pragmatism may not inspire the same fervor in the people that Mern does, and his policies may lean too neutral for a city built on revolution and rebirth. He has, however, been responsible for most of the food distributed to the Riftkin and has been spotted in their quarters many times.

---

Vas Vexerine​

​

Background:
Vas wasn’t born into refinement. His family had art in their blood, yes—but not in the way of sculptors or playwrights. The Vexerine lineage was one of scavengers, craftsmen, and repurposers—those who found beauty and function in what others discarded. They ran salvage yards, piecing together broken remnants of the past and forging them into something new. Scrap metal, ancient relics, lost technologies—if it had been thrown away, the Vexerines could make it valuable again.

• Strengths:
  • Master of Reinvention – Vas doesn’t believe in waste—only untapped potential. He sees opportunity where others see failure and has a talent for making the most of limited resources.
  • A Natural Innovator – He thrives in chaos. Bureaucracy bores him, but when faced with a crisis? That’s when Vas shines, cobbling together solutions from unexpected places.

Weaknesses:

• Rules Are… Suggestions? – Vas hates rigid structures and traditional systems. He thrives on adaptability and instinct, which can make him difficult to control.
• Not A Diplomat – While he understands people, he doesn’t always have the patience for pleasantries or political maneuvering. He is blunt, unpredictable, and sometimes too fast for his own good.
• Reckless Confidence – Vas believes in his own vision—sometimes to a fault. He doesn’t always consider long-term consequences if he’s focused on immediate solutions.

Additional Notes:
His hands are always dirty—literally and metaphorically. Expect him to smell faintly of oil, metal, and some unknown spice. His workshop is a disaster zone, filled with half-finished contraptions, salvaged Riftkin parts, and blueprints of questionable legality. Personal friend of Silvano. They go way back, though how exactly they met is a story no one tells the same way twice.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Mordecai sat at the council table, posture composed but sharp as a blade. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the skeletal goat head of his cane, each beat echoing in the quiet of the chamber as he read over the dossiers. The air was still, heavy with the scent of old paper and polished stone. Silvano’s handwriting danced across the pages, flamboyant as ever—each curl of ink and dramatic underline more a performance than a note.

Across from him—on top of the table—Silvano sprawled like he owned it, cape billowing despite no wind, propped up on his elbows with his legs kicking in the air behind him. He looked like a bard mid-ballad, or perhaps a pirate on shore leave, if said pirate had dipped into theatrical flair one too many times.

“Sooo…” Silvano began, voice rich, booming, and far too loud for the room, “What do you think, Mordecai, my dark, brooding shadow of mystery and menace?” He grinned, flashing teeth, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Mordecai didn’t look up. He turned a page, slow and precise.

Silvano gasped audibly—hand to his chest like Mordecai had just insulted his lineage.

“You wound me with your silence!” he declared, dramatically flipping onto his back, one arm flung over his eyes. “I spend hours crafting these beautiful notes and—nothing? Not even a smoldering glare of approval?”

Mordecai flicked a slow glance at him, unimpressed.

“You see something,” he said simply, voice dry as ash. “Get on with it.”

Silvano bolted upright, spinning in a full circle before striking a pose, finger pointed in the air.

“Ah-ha! As always, Mordecai, you cut to the core of it!” His cape fluttered again, inexplicably. “Yes, yes, I do see something, and allow me to illuminate you—with flair!”

He scooped up the first dossier with a flourish.

---

“Mern Plumestride!” he announced, striding across the table like it was a stage. “The people’s prince! The golden-tongued firebird of the market! Pros: Charismatic, radiant, worships you and Ephraim like divine idols—and, frankly, who could blame him? He could rally a riot with a wink. Cons: Has never lifted anything heavier than a wine glass, and thinks he can talk his way out of anything—which, adorable, but… no.” A pause, then a wistful sigh. “Still, he’s got star quality, Mordecai. Let’s not waste that.”

He flung the dossier over his shoulder (it landed perfectly back on the table), grabbing the next.

---

“Orlin Redtail!” Silvano barked, chest puffed. “Solid, stable, the economic engine of Umbrafane. Pros: Keeps everything running like clockwork, beloved by the farmers, and a charming smile, if you’re into that sort of rustic charm. Cons: About as exciting as boiled bread, and dreams of stability, not revolution.” He leaned in, stage-whispering, “He’d run a lovely tea shop. Not a city.”

Then came the third dossier.

---

“Vas Vexerine!” Silvano cackled, arms wide. “Chaos incarnate! Brilliant, wild, smells like burnt oil and mystery! Pros: Turns garbage into gold, thrives in disaster, never asks for permission. Cons: Reckless, loud, and possibly building illegal machines in his basement. I love him—but only in emergencies.”

Silvano spun dramatically, stopping inches from Mordecai with a sudden intensity, voice lowering, eyes gleaming.

“But Mern… Mern’s the diamond in the rough. The underdog. The star waiting to be shaped. He wants to serve, Mordecai. He wants to rise. And I know you love turning potential into power.”

He bowed, hand over his heart, voice deep and rich.

“Give him the chance. Let’s make him shine.”

Silvano paused, grinning ear to ear.

“And if he doesn’t… well,” he clapped his hands. “You get to tear him apart. Win-win! Huzzah!"

Mordecai rolled his eyes, yet, he knew Silvano. There was something there he couldn't deny. He nodded. "Bring me Mern." Mordecai said simply. With a flourish exist, Silvano jumped off the table running to call forth Mern.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The heavy doors of the council chamber opened with a slow creak, and Mern Plumestride stepped inside as though entering a sanctum. His movements were measured, reverent—each step an offering, each breath a silent hymn. He did not rush. He did not falter. He moved with the grace of one who had long prepared for this moment.

As he crossed the threshold, he lifted a gloved hand to his chest, fingers splaying across his heart before pressing two fingers lightly against his forehead—a gesture of devotion, of humility, of acknowledgment. A silent prayer, as one would offer before the altar of Wrath and Vengeance.

His pink eyes, sharp and glistening, swept over the chamber before settling on him.

Mordecai.

The vessel. The fire. The shadow of justice and fury entwined.

Mern had heard his name whispered in the temples, spoken in sermons, woven into the fabric of every scripture he had pored over with hungry reverence. And now, to be here—to stand before him—was something he had only dreamed of.

A deep breath. A controlled exhale.

He pressed his palm against his chest once more, bowing—not as one bows before a mortal king, but as a disciple before something divine.

"Gloria et furor," he murmured. Glory and Wrath.

“My Lord Mordecai,” he spoke, his voice smooth yet solemn, carrying the weight of one who had long recited prayers in the dim glow of candlelit halls. “To stand before you is an honor beyond words.”

Straightening, he folded his hands before him, though his fingers curled slightly, as if grasping something unseen.

“I have knelt in the temples. I have bathed in the words of your history. I have seen the flames of Umbrafane burn against the horizon, a beacon of purpose against the void of stagnation.” His breath hitched—just slightly, just enough to betray that this moment was real to him. More than duty. More than politics. Faith.

His gaze flickered with something fervent, something too measured to be called zeal but too consuming to be mere admiration.

“And now, I stand before you.”

A pause. His talons curled briefly against his palm.

“I have been told you wish to speak with me,” he continued, careful not to let the quiet tremor of hopefulness betray him. “And I will answer whatever you ask.”

Then, as though compelled by something beyond himself, he knelt.

Not the grand, performative genuflection of a nobleman. No. This was the kneel of a believer.

His head bowed, his hands clasped before him in a practiced grip of devotion. And then—one more gesture—his fingers grazed his forehead, his lips, his heart.

"Ut ira ducat me. Ut ultio confirmet me." May Wrath guide me. May Vengeance strengthen me.

Then, softly, he spoke.

"Test me, my lord. And if I am found unworthy, I will not argue."