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

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Her hand moved without thinking—lifting, trembling slightly in the cold air. She stared at it like it wasn’t hers. The skin beneath her fur glistened faintly, as if slick with something more than water. Not blood. Not sweat.

Something else.

A strange shimmer traced along her palm—cool and blue, like liquid light pulsing beneath the skin. Her breath hitched. The energy didn’t hurt. But it didn’t belong. It whispered.

It moved.

Tiny tendrils of condensation curled from her fingertips, coiling like mist. The very air around her palm grew denser—heavier—wet.

“…What is this,” she whispered, voice cracking like thawing ice.

The tears still hadn’t stopped. But now she barely noticed them. The energy was crawling across her knuckles, slow and deliberate, like it had been waiting to be remembered.

A pulse.

Not inside her—through her.

Her head snapped toward the door at the same moment Eryon did, both of them catching the sound. That breath.

Something on the other side.

Something familiar.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

She only stared at the door, her body hunched but her gaze sharpened now, one arm still wrapped around herself while the other hovered—palm open, fingers twitching slightly, trailing a shimmer that glowed faintly like a river under moonlight.

Not just a reaction.

Not just magic.

A warning.

Something was coming. And whatever it was…

It wanted her attention.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Eryon’s eyes locked on her hand, the blue shimmer pulsing like a warning bell. His jaw tightened.

“I…”
A rare stammer broke through his voice. Whatever this was—it wasn’t magic he recognized.

Then the sound.

Heavy footfalls. Too heavy for any Kin.

He spun toward the shattered frame of the door, already broken inward, just barely holding in place. It groaned once—then pushed open.

Riversong stumbled through, her breath catching when her eyes found Ephraim.
“Ephraim!” she gasped, rushing forward, voice raw with relief. Her steps were shaky, but her presence filled the room like warmth after stormwind.

But she wasn’t alone.

The Beast followed.

Looming. Towering. The air behind it grew dense, hot, heavy with shadow and salt. Its fur still smoked faintly from old battle, the twisted essence clinging to its frame in tendrils that flickered like dying embers. Its head hung low—not in shame, but exhaustion. Pain. Its fangs were visible through parted lips, breath shallow and loud in the still room.

Then it saw her.

Ephraim.

The Beast froze. Something shifted—like the pulse of a memory in muscle. Its head rose, just slightly. Eyes, still veiled in red and gold mist, locked onto her.

A sound escaped its throat. A whine. Fragile. Familiar.

It took a step—just one.

Then stopped.

Ephraim hadn’t moved.

The air between them pulsed. Dense. Heavy.

And the Beast… waited.

Eryon gripped his axe, the creature appearing once again. "The beast..." He muttered under his breath, focused, hand gripped on his axe incase the beast lunged.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim didn’t know what she was doing.

She didn’t think—she reacted.

The moment Eryon gripped his axe, something inside her twisted—tightened. Not fear. Not rage. Something colder. Quieter. Something that saw movement and answered not with instinct, but with pressure.

Water.

It rose.

A sudden surge from the moisture clinging to the room, the bed, the air itself—it obeyed her.

With a flick of her trembling wrist, the air condensed with a sharp snap, and a narrow column of force shot from her palm—slamming Eryon against the wall.

Enough to warn.

Ephraim didn’t scream.

She didn’t apologize.

Her arm trembled, still extended, the water curling around her fingers like claws made from memory. Her breath came shallow. Fast. Tears streamed down her cheeks—but now they mixed with the cold shimmer glowing faintly across her skin.

“…Don’t touch him,” she said, voice frayed but firm.

Her eyes, for the first time, met the Beast’s.

And in them—grief. Fury. Confusion.

Recognition.

It stood there.

He stood there.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Eryon didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

Still pressed against the wall, breath caught in his throat, his axe lay forgotten at his feet. He just… nodded. Slow. Subdued. A silent surrender.

Riversong’s breath hitched.

She’d seen many forms of magic in her years—but not this. Not Ephraim like this.

“Ephraim?” she asked gently, her voice catching on the edge of something deeper. Worry. Awe.

She turned to the Beast, placing a hand against his side. His fur was hot beneath her palm, trembling—not from rage, but confusion. Conflict.

“Mordecai,” she murmured, grounding him, “It’s alright. She’s safe. Look.”

She stepped back slowly, giving them space. Letting the air settle between grief and recognition.

The Beast didn’t take his eyes off Ephraim.

He glanced toward Eryon—just once. A growl rumbled deep in his throat. Not a threat. Not a warning. A noise like someone trying to form words they no longer remembered how to say.

Then, slowly, The Beast lowered himself to the floor.

First to his knees.

Then onto all fours.

His massive head dipped low until it hovered inches above the cold stone. Horns curved outward, casting long shadows. His ears twitched back… then forward again, uncertain.

And finally—he let out a low, broken whine.

A sound of longing. Of mourning.

He rested his head against his paws.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

The soft sound of her hooves against stone echoed like slow tides lapping the edge of something sacred. The water that shimmered around her ankles trailed in elegant arcs, following her like a memory unwilling to let go.

She walked—one step at a time—toward him.

Not hurried.

Not hesitant.

Her eyes remained fixed on the Beast. No fury. No fear. Just something deeper. Something that shimmered behind the glass surface of her gaze.

Recognition.

When Ephraim reached him, she stopped just before his face.

And then—

She knelt.

Slowly. Silently. No flourish. Just grace.

Her hands lowered—first to her lap, then forward. Not to touch him. Not yet. She let her fingertips hover above the fur at his cheek, her eyes soft but unyielding.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The Beast didn’t move.

Not away. Not forward.

It remained exactly as it was—head pressed against its paws, massive frame pulled tight, like it was trying to fold itself smaller for her. The great weight of it seemed to sink further into the stone, as if it could disappear into the floor if it just held still long enough.

Its eyes—those hollow, burning eyes—watched her, but not with expectation. With something quieter. Like it was waiting to be seen.

A slow wag of its tail swept once across the floor, hesitant. Not joy. Not even hope. Just a nervous flicker of something old and aching.

Then came the sound—a low, strained whine, broken in the middle by short, choked chuffs of breath. A voice that didn’t know how to speak anymore. A cry muffled by its own form.

It didn’t reach for her.

It just… called.

Riversong took a quiet step back, one hand drawn to her chest. She said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

She had seen everything—what this creature had become to protect Ephraim. The fire. The ruin. The wrath. And now, this: a beast of fury, flattened in surrender before the woman he would still burn the world for.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s chest rose, then stuttered.

She blinked—once. Twice. Her vision pulsed. Too much light. Too much memory.

She turned—slowly—her gaze sliding back toward Eryon, still braced against the wall. His expression was unreadable beneath the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand trembled just above the haft of his axe. But his eyes… they were soft. Scared for her.

Her gaze shifted again.

To Riversong.

Warm. Open. Guarded. Her hand still hovered over her heart like it was trying to hold something inside—something too big, too fragile.

Then Ephraim looked at him.

The Beast.

Wrath.

Mordecai.

And it all hit at once.

Every timeline. Every life. The flood swallowing Unity—she remembered that now. The cold. The screaming. The dead. The weight of the water crashing over rooftops, her voice vanishing under the waves.

Lucian’s laughter.

Poise’s voice—high, delighted—twisting her limbs, forcing her to perform, even as the city drowned around her.

Atticus’s face.

Atticus’s hands.

Atticus’s betrayal.

Wrath.

The contract.

The kids.

Her parents.

Herself.

Ephraim’s knees buckled.

She dropped to the ground like a marionette with cut strings, her hands flying to her face.

Her breathing caught—then quickened.

Sharp. Panicked. She couldn’t get enough air. Her chest rose and fell too fast, her throat closing around every breath that tried to pass. Her fingers clawed at her cheeks, then pressed to her horns, her temples. Pressure. Too much pressure. Like something inside her skull was trying to split her open.

The world tilted.

Her ears rang.

Muffled voices buzzed at the edges of her hearing, blurred into white noise—Riversong? Eryon? The Beast? She couldn’t tell. Everything crashed together.

Too loud.

Too close.

Too much.

Her body curled inward, her eyes wide and wild. Shimmering trails of water rippled outward from her in all directions, pulsing erratically. Her magic responded without focus—lashing out, surging, then collapsing in again like waves hitting walls.

No rhythm. No control.

She whimpered.

A low, strangled sound that barely made it past her lips.

This was the flaw in Poise’s design. In Atticus’s trap. They had counted on the violence. On vengeance. On grief.

They had forgotten Ephraim.

And Ephraim was breaking.

Not from wrath.

But from too much love. Too much memory. Too much self that no one had ever let her have.

She began to rock, slightly, hands still over her face.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The Beast halted—ears flicking, body tense, every breath sharp and uneven. Something in Ephraim’s reaction pierced through the haze of instinct and fury. The panic in her chest, the trembling in her limbs—it echoed in him like a sound he couldn't unhear.

This wasn’t what he expected.
This wasn’t reunion.

It was recoil.

The weight of it sank into the pit of his stomach—foreign, burning. That unseen tether between them—between Wrath and Vengeance—shivered, frayed.

Something was wrong.

The Beast crouched low again, drawing back a single step as if trying not to make himself larger than he already was. His breath came faster now—nervous, uncertain. Confused.

“Ephraim?” Riversong gasped.

She dropped beside her without hesitation, knees hitting stone, arms reaching instinctively. Her voice was soft, but it cracked at the edges.

“Ephraim, honey… hey, we’re here. You’re safe,” she whispered, brushing damp curls from her face. “Look at me, sweetheart. You’re not alone. We’re here.”

Her hand hovered over Ephraim’s cheek but didn’t touch—waiting for permission even now.

The Beast flinched again, sensitive to the uncontrolled magic rippling through the room. It made his muscles twitch, his claws scrape faintly against the stone. Still, he didn’t run.

Didn’t lash.

He growled low, a sound more anxious than threatening. Then—step by step—he inched closer. His massive frame trembled slightly, not from exertion… but from something deeper. Hesitation. Fear.

He dipped his head low again, ears back, muzzle near the ground—then reached forward, just enough.

A soft whine leaked out from his throat as his nose gently nudged Ephraim’s arm.

A single touch.

Barely there.

Not a demand. Not a plea.

Just… a reminder.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s breath hitched, caught on something sharp and invisible. The world around her wasn’t breaking—it was folding. Layers crashing in, too fast to parse. The air felt heavy and light at once, like drowning in a current of her own thoughts.

The touch at her arm—gentle, real—should’ve grounded her.

But it didn’t.

It splintered something instead.

Her gaze flicked wildly—Eryon, Riversong, the Beast—but their forms blurred, too many memories overlaying them. Not like déjà vu.

Like too many lives crashing in at once.

A pulse behind her eyes—hard and deep. Like something had been turned on. Unsealed.

Lucian. The garden. The lanternlight and the sound of laughter—no, screaming. Poise spinning like a storm, ribbons flaring, teeth smiling behind a mask. The flood. The collapse of the Unity spires. Mordecai in the water. Mordecai at her throat. Mordecai… crying. Holding her. A beast with horns. No, a man with blood on his hands. Atticus laughing. Wrath burning. Her mother. Her father.

Alra’s soft voice. Tiz’s quiet, broken smile.

The cups.

The slow death.

Her knees buckled.

Her hands snapped up to her face like she could hold herself together physically—like if she squeezed hard enough, the memories might stop unraveling. But they didn’t. They cascaded like waves.

The cups.

They smiled at her.

“I should’ve known,” she gasped. “I should’ve—I felt it. I felt it.”

Tears poured down her cheeks now, her entire body trembling, breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. Her magic surged again—water swirling around her in thin, jagged currents that hovered unnaturally off the ground, catching the light like broken glass in the tide.

But Ephraim’s pupils had vanished behind the glow. She shook with something beyond fear—beyond rage. Something bottomless.

Something cracked.

And still, that presence clung to her—Vengeance. Not separate anymore. Not dormant.

Active.

Watching.

It wasn’t just Ephraim’s pain anymore.

It was hers.

And her mother’s.

And her father’s.

And Vengeance’s.

The floor beneath Ephraim trembled—not physically, but with pressure. Magic. Grief compacted so densely it had mass.

The water responded.

It didn't crash—it rose.

Behind her, a shape formed—slow and deliberate. A massive hand, carved entirely from water, began to take shape out of the surrounding air and floor alike, dragging moisture from every surface. It rose, fingers unfurling as it coiled in place like a warning, like a question. And through it ran threads of light—not warm, but bladed. Thin veins of luminous energy etched across the knuckles and palm, tracing ancient shapes.

Vengeance.

The hand wasn’t just water. It was weight. A projection of something she no longer controlled.

The room dimmed in its shadow. The air rippled around it. It wasn’t wild or thrashing—it was poised. Like a divine judgment waiting for her breath to tip the scale.

Ephraim stood in front of it, motionless now, but vibrating—magic crackling around her limbs like static off deepwater stone. Her eyes glowed brighter, unreadable.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Riversong fell back with a sharp gasp as the surge of magic erupted, the tremor knocking her off balance. Her hooves slipped on the wet stone, and she hit the ground hard on her hip, teeth gritting against the jolt of pain. One hand clutched her side while the other reached instinctively toward Ephraim.

The Beast had jolted upright—startled, shaken. Its massive frame tensed as the air changed, fur bristling as the water rose in the shape of something too vast, too intentional.

It staggered back a step, its eyes locked on the forming hand of Vengeance. That impossible shape towered over the room now, casting a distorted shadow, and in its presence—something in the Beast shifted. The fire behind its eyes flared brighter, breath catching in uneven bursts. It turned its head sharply, once, then again—like the roar building in its throat physically hurt to hold in.



Then—it broke.

The Beast threw its head back and let out a piercing, guttural howl. Not just pain. Not just fury.

Grief.

It echoed through the chamber, trembling the walls with sound deeper than rage. When it lowered its head again, it staggered as if unsteady, its mouth curled open with breathless, labored panting. It let out another roar—shorter this time, sharp. A cry not of defiance, but recognition.

Vengeance.

It knew her.

And she was here—but distant. Unreachable.

"Ephraim!" Riversong cried from the ground, struggling to her knees. Her voice cracked around the edges, the fear in it undeniable now. "Ephraim—what’s happening?!"

She turned toward the Beast, pleading through her panic. "No—stop! Mordecai, you’re hurting! You’re safe! You’re—"

But she hesitated.

Because even she wasn’t sure anymore.

The Beast didn’t react. Not to her. Not to the echo of his name. His focus was locked—singular, consumed—on Ephraim and the towering shape that rose behind her like a judge from the deep.

His breath came faster.

Steam hissed from his mouth.

Something ancient and wounded rattled behind his ribs. Something that hadn’t yet decided—

Was it calling out for it's counterpart?

Or preparing to be judged?

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim didn’t answer.

Not with words.

Her eyes—still glowing, still lost—drifted to the Beast.

To him.

To Mordecai.

Her head tilted, just slightly, like she was trying to understand something she’d already forgotten. Her lips parted—barely. No sound came out. Just breath. Just a whisper of grief beneath the thunder of her magic.

The hand behind her shifted.

A ripple. A tremor. Fingers curling inward like the anticipation of a blow.

She raised her arm—slow, weightless, like a marionette pulled by a string that wasn’t hers.

The Beast tensed.

And for a breath—just one—it looked like she might bring it down on him.

Then—

Her gaze broke from his.

Turned.

Beyond him.

Umbrafane.

The water twisted.

The hand spun with her motion—graceful, elegant, final—and crashed downward toward the city beyond the district walls.

Not yet touching.

But aimed.

A judgment.

A memory returning home.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The Beast knew.

It didn’t need words. Its body understood before its mind caught up—deep in the marrow, in the old instincts buried beneath horn and flame. That hand, rising from water and pain, wasn’t wild. It was deliberate. Not wrath—Vengeance.

And it was going to strike.

The Beast’s body trembled, shadowy heat rippling from its spine. Eyes wide, flaring brighter. The air choked with steam, magic, salt—and scent. Too many scents.

The city.

Umbrafane.

Familiar trails hit all at once—like blood-slick strings in the air. The scent of children. Avarice. Ash. Riversong’s warmth, still trembling behind him. The rooftop soot from weeks ago. Ephraim’s blood.

Then—distorted.

The Beast twitched.

Its breath caught, violent and fast. The scents tangled. Pulled. The world around it blurred—flashes in red and gold and shadow.

Mordecai, killing.
The spire collapsing.
A scream in the dark.
Poise’s laughter.
“You should kill me.”
Falling.
Atticus’s mask cracking.
Ephraim’s scent—turning sour.
Fear. Not directed at the world.
At him.

It staggered sideways. Growled. Snapped its head as if trying to shake it loose. The vision didn’t break. The sound of pulse and breath and memory flooded its ears like a rising tide.

No ground beneath.

No peace.

Only this moment—this choice.

The Beast roared, long and guttural, steam curling from its mouth like smoke from an open wound. Its tail lashed. Its paws slammed the earth. Then it rose higher—taller—towering. Its fire burned wide, black shadow bursting behind it.

Not to attack.

To shield.

A wall of voidflame burst from the earth in a hiss of pressure, rising between the water-forged hand and the city it loved.

But the hand was still moving.

And the Beast moved first.

Its hooves scraped stone.

Its chest heaved.

And it hurled itself forward—not in rage, not in wrath—but in surrender.

It didn’t strike the hand.

It let the hand strike it.

If something had to pay the price—if Vengeance demanded judgment—let it be him.

Let it be Morrath.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The moment his body met the light—the moment he offered himself—the water shuddered.

The great hand trembled mid-swing, fingers stretched wide as if preparing to crush the world.

But it stopped.

Inches from his head.

The light around it flickered, twisted—not fading, not calming, but confused. Like the magic itself didn’t understand why he hadn’t moved.

Why he let it come.

Ephraim’s arm was still raised, her hand outstretched like she was conducting something ancient and unstoppable.

But now—it was shaking.

Wildly.

“No,” she muttered, blinking rapidly, her voice brittle. “No, no, you’re not supposed to—you were supposed to run—why didn’t you—why would you—”

Her magic strained against itself.

The hand writhed—conflicted. It twisted in the air, its fingers bending inward, not toward him but back toward her. Its edges began to fragment, streams of water trying to hold together even as something deeper—older—threatened to unravel.

Ephraim stepped back, panting, her free hand clawing at her chest.

“You’re not supposed to give in!” she screamed, voice cracking under the weight of everything inside her. “That’s not—! That’s not what he—what they—!”

She couldn’t finish the sentence.

Because Vengeance still stood behind her eyes.

Because Mercy was somewhere deeper, drowning beneath the tide of all this pain.

And Mordecai knelt before her—not as a monster. Not even as a man.

But as someone willing to be judged.

Ephraim’s face twisted—rage, confusion, grief, all knotted behind her eyes. Her horns pulsed with light, her voice rising in a choked scream as she pushed out her magic—desperate to move him, to lift him, to make him go.

But Morrath didn’t budge.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Morrath didn’t move.

The great beast held its ground beneath the hand, breath ragged but steady—each exhale like smoke through scorched lungs. It raised its head slightly, eyes burning with a slow, flickering fire. The air steamed around it, coals in a forge that refused to go cold.

Its body trembled.

Not from fear.

But from something deeper.

A low sound crawled up its throat—guttural, broken, like something trying to claw its way free. Growls twisted into strained vibrations, then into fragmented speech. The voice that followed was low and rough, not entirely beast, not entirely kin—something feral, but Mordecai’s soul beneath it too.

"I told you," it rumbled. The words weren’t accusation. Just memory—old, half-buried, rising back like breath through dust. “Harwin could twist everything. He could break the rules. Erase every trace of me. Just to keep me from you.”

It paused—smoke curling from its mouth, the glow of its eyes flickering.

“But he never understood what I saw.”

The beast lowered its head—not in submission, but reverence.

“You,” it said. “You were always the beginning. My love. My devotion. The first thing I sensed when I opened my eyes in this broken world. Not just Vengeance. Not just Mercy. You.”

A rasp—almost a whimper—caught in its throat, but it kept speaking, the voice thick with wear.

“That never changed. It never would. You’ve always been my cornerstone.”

Its head bowed briefly again. A shudder passed through its limbs—exhaustion pushing at the edges. But it held. And then, something shifted.

The voice again—quieter, slower. Mordecai. Not the beast. Not Wrath.

Still warped.

Still broken.

But him.

“Ephraim,” he said, barely above a whisper, as if afraid the sound alone might break him apart. “When we stood before the Primordials, I told you—I would always find you. No matter the life. No matter the shape I wore. I didn’t know who I would become in this timeline. I didn’t know if I’d even remember. But I knew... I’d be drawn to you.”

A pause.

“I always have. I love you. Not Mercy, not Vengeance, you.”

He exhaled, steam hissing through his teeth. The scent of shadow magic drifted low to the floor, curling like incense around judgment.

“I understand Wrath,” he murmured. “The need to burn. To lash out. To be seen only as the monster.”

His gaze flicked to the ground. To the claws. The blackened fur. The thing he’d become.

“I wasn’t a good man. Even before you. I hurt people. Evil. Corrupted. I’ve done things where my life should've met final judgement. So if there’s a price to pay… if someone must stand trial for this fury—let it be me.”

A pause.

Then softer—almost like prayer.

“Let it be us.”

He lifted his head, eyes steady now.

“But not them,” he said. “Not where our children sleep. Not the kin. Not the ones we fought to build a world for.”

Another breath. A final beat.

“They don’t owe Vengeance anything.”
His voice quieted to a rasp.
“We do.”

And Morrath stood there—shaking, burning, still willing.

Still waiting.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Riversong, roll DANGERSENSE.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Riversong Danger Sense

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Riversong:
The silence that followed Mordecai’s words was vast.

A breath.

A heartbeat.

A stillness, stretching across the chamber like a held inhale—long, aching, final.

Then the sky broke.

It started with a glow—not subtle, not gentle. A violent yellow hue began to bleed through the cracks of the ruined district ceiling above. Light flooded through the broken stone and vine-choked windows, not warm like dawn, but sharp—sickly bright, unnatural. Like the sun had been twisted by unseen hands and repainted with madness.

The ground trembled.

Not just in the Riftkin district. Not just under their feet.

Across all of Umbrafane.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Riversong’s breath caught in her throat.

Rippletail shot from her hair, spiraling upward—its form no longer soft and playful, but stretched, distorted. Water crashed along its back in restless waves, its translucent fur shifting like storm tides. Small horns shimmered into being above its eyes as it hissed—low and guttural, echoing her fear.

She staggered to her feet, staff clutched tight in one hand as the world around them changed. Light poured through the fractured ceiling—sickly yellow, sharp as broken glass. It cast twisted shadows over the ruined stone, and the ground beneath her sandals quaked—not just locally, not just here. It was everywhere.

Something ancient was stirring.

Her eyes darted to Morrath, to Ephraim—the divine hand of Vengeance still hovering above him, caught in indecision, but coiled like it could fall at any moment.

“No!” Riversong cried, voice sharp with desperation. “Stop—stop this!”

Tears streamed down her face as she took a step forward, Rippletail surging beside her in a jagged arc of spray.

“You are both hurting!” she shouted, throat cracking with raw emotion. “Please—look! Look around you!”

Her voice trembled, eyes wide. “The city—something’s happening! Ephraim, please!” Her gaze turned to Morrath. “Mordecai!”

The name ripped from her like a wound reopening—not just fear, but a mother’s pain.

Then—

The sound split the sky.

A war horn.

Low. Echoing. Impossible to tell where it came from—above, below, or within the walls themselves.

And for one breathless moment—Umbrafane held its breath.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

The sky screamed.

It didn’t crack—it tore.

From horizon to horizon, the once-muted heavens split into ribbons of molten yellow, like a canvas catching fire. The clouds curled inward, spiral upon spiral, the sun itself warping, stretched thin by unseen hands. What shone down now was no longer sunlight.

It was Harwin’s will.

The glow was blinding. Not holy. Not cleansing.

Just wrong.

And then—

They appeared.

All across the perimeter walls of Umbrafane, where once guards might have stood, where trees grew wild and vines crawled over stone—

Harlekin stood.

Balanced like dancers at the edge of the world, their porcelain masks gleamed gold in the warped light. Some tall, some hunched, some floating—some barely shaped like kin at all. Their bodies shimmered with false color and sick symmetry, each one still as a statue.

Then—movement.

In perfect synchrony, they tilted their heads.

Toward the city.

Toward its people.

Toward the children.

The silence that followed was worse than a roar.

And at the center—where every gaze led—stood Poise.

Balanced on the peak of a blackened spire that hadn’t been there before, the stage he’d always wanted built for him, rising from the bones of the Riftkin quarter.

He was luminous.

A long cloak shimmered behind him like a living shadow made of broken mirror. His horns curved outward in silhouette, elegant and violent. His mask—half cracked, half perfect—glowed faintly with threads of gold.

But it was what stood behind him that stopped breath.

An energy—a presence—like a sun drawn too close.

Harwin.

Or what remained of him.

The source of this yellow storm surged behind Poise like a second sky. His magic pulsed with rhythm, woven through every Harlekin on the walls like a living thread. A god rebuilt from madness. A net pulled tight across the city.

Umbrafane had no more time.

Poise didn’t speak right away.

He let it sit.

The tension. The light. The inevitability.

Then—with a theatrical twirl of his wrist and a voice like silk dipped in venom—he threw out his arms and screamed across the wind:

“Your curtain has risen, Umbrafane!” his voice boomed.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Morrath’s head lifted.

Still bowed beneath the looming judgment of Vengeance, still shadowed by the great water-born hand—but its gaze shifted.

To the spire.

To the wall.

To them.

Poise.
Harlekin.
Harwin.

Something behind those flame-veiled eyes cracked.

“HARWIN!” the Beast roared—no, bellowed—the name ripped from its throat like it had been burned into its bones. The sound tore through the chamber, primal and wrathful, something no longer fully kin.

Then—pain.

Morrath reeled back.

A strangled howl tore loose as its limbs buckled. Its vision flared, flickered, blurred—the world swimming in red and smoke. Fire hissed from its mouth in coughing bursts. The veins beneath its fur glowed brighter now—blazing lines like molten chains, too hot, too deep, too close to breaking.

It thrashed once—head flung low, dragging snarls through the dirt. The air around its body warped with heat, steam pulsing from its jaws.

It turned—half toward Ephraim, half away—trembling, trembling. Fighting something bigger than itself.

Fighting itself.

Its voice tried to claw its way free, caught between man and monster.

“If you want—” it choked, jaws shaking. A paw slammed into the ground, shaking the earth beneath them. “V-V-Vengeance…”

Another howl. Another rupture of smoke and fury.

“I will—” it growled, almost begged, slamming its chest against the earth. “Take your judgment.”

The words dissolved again—swallowed in the howl that followed. Another roar. Another crack in its throat.

“But they—”

Its head jerked toward the spire. Toward Poise. Toward Harwin’s twisted light.

“They… are the ones…”

The growl turned guttural, rage twisting it beyond words. It snarled, barked, flared with embers as its claws scraped deep grooves into the stone.

“THEY deserve your vengeance!”

The final word broke through like a thunderclap. Not just shouted.

Unleashed.

Morrath threw its head back, roaring up into the yellow-lit sky, the fire from its chest curling like a wounded star. Then slammed both forelimbs down, again and again—like it could shake the earth apart, like it needed something to feel pain with it.

Its breath hitched.

It turned it's head to her Ephraim.

Not pleading.

Not begging.

Just—raw. A single thread of clarity still inside the storm.

And then the roar returned. Loud. Broken. Heart-shattered.

It wasn’t the sound of fury.

It was the sound of a soul that had been set on fire and left alive to burn.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Poise: The Ace


Queen: Lucy

Joker: Zhu'Gar


Rank 10: Kayn


Rank 9: Gladios


Rank 8: Ar'paw



Rank 7: Mallard


Rank 6: Lucian


Rank 3: Bellarus

 

[scantilycladsnail]

From the spire, Lucy didn’t blink.

Where others shifted or flinched beneath Morrath’s roar, she held perfectly still—crown rising like the crest of a wave, her long neck arched with effortless grace. The sun-yellow magic washed over her spotted fur, painting her in a palette of royalty and rot.

“Do you hear that, Poise?” she said, voice soft, unreadable. “That’s not just rage.” Her fingers flexed slightly around the golden staff at her side. “That’s heartbreak.”

She turned her head toward him, mask unreadable beneath the tall antlers, but her words were sharp.

“You’ve broken something sacred.”

Poise smiled.

Of course he did.

The kind of smile that split wide without reaching the eyes. The kind of smile one wears when they’ve already decided how the scene will end.

“Oh darling, he’s always been broken,” Poise crooned, one leg crossed daintily over the other atop the spire’s edge, backlit by Harwin’s seething brilliance. “All I did was give him the stage to scream.”

He reached one arm outward like he was addressing a crowd, his silhouette glittering with rhinestones and dripping menace.

“Besides,” he purred, gaze cutting down toward the trembling shadow of Morrath below, “he just gave us the best opening act we could’ve asked for.”

Then, shifting slightly—his smile widened.

“And look... she’s watching.”

Ephraim’s breath caught.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t lash.

But her whole body locked, rigid in place. The words—the sound of his voice—cut through the storm inside her like a blade of memory. Raw. Real.

The great water-forged hand hovering above the city hesitated, its fingers twitching—not in rage now, but in confusion. Conflict. As if it too felt her ache. Her hesitation. Her grief.

Her eyes—still glowing—fixed on Morrath.

“You…” she whispered, but it barely passed her lips. Her voice trembled with something old. Something deep.

“You’re not lying.”

Tears ran down her cheeks—not from panic now, but from recognition.

She took a step forward.

Then another.

The water shifted around her like a tide retreating. Not gone. Just... held back.

She reached one hand toward him.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Morrath’s head hung low, smoke curling from his muzzle as his breath came in shallow, searing huffs. His body trembled beneath the weight of everything—rage, memory, flame—but something in the haze shifted.

Something real.

Her.

The tether, faint but familiar, tugged taut between them—and held.

He moved.

Slowly, carefully, as if the very act of motion might break whatever fragile thread had found its way back to him. His claws scraped stone as he stepped forward, the muscles in his legs twitching with effort. He was all fire-veined shadow and soot-black fur, still crowned in horn and beast’s breath, but no longer looming. No longer a threat.

Just drawn.

To her.

He lowered himself—massive frame folding down until his chest touched the stone, forelimbs sprawled out in front of him like a hound called home from the cold. His head followed, dipping until his heavy horns scraped the floor. And then—softly, reverently—he pressed the bridge of his muzzle into her hand.

Contact.

His eyes fluttered closed.

For a moment, everything stilled.

No war horns. No fire. No gods.

Just the feel of her palm against the scorched fur of his cheek. A warmth he remembered—not in his mind, but in his bones.

---

Ephraim listened carefully, watching the way Mordecai’s jaw tensed, the way his eyes flicked toward Wrath like a tether he couldn’t sever. Like a weight that would never let him go. She could feel the tension rolling off him, sharp and uncertain. He was holding something back—not just his words, but something deeper, something coiled too tightly beneath his skin.

Her expression remained steady, unwavering, even as the weight of what he was saying settled between them. She understood.

"Controlled rage," she said simply, her voice firm, certain. A counterbalance to his doubts.

She reached for him, fingers brushing lightly over his arm, grounding him in something tangible—something real.

"Wrath is raw destruction. Mercy is precision. Together?" She let her hand rest against his sleeve, her touch steady. "Controlled rage."

For a brief moment, everything else faded—the looming countdown, the uncertain transformation, the fear of losing control. It was just them.

And then, without hesitation, she leaned in and kissed him.

It was slow, deliberate, not rushed. A promise, an anchor, something solid in the chaos. Not a distraction, not a deflection—just presence.

She wasn’t telling him everything would be fine. She wasn’t promising that this would go smoothly. But she was here. And she would be, no matter what.

When she finally pulled away, she didn’t move far. Her forehead nearly brushed his as she met his gaze again, her voice quieter now.

"We can handle this, Mordecai. Both of us."

And she meant it.

---

A whine escaped him. Low and shaky, but not from pain.

From relief.

He leaned in harder, nudging her hand as if begging her to feel it too. Then—like something in him slipped loose—he moved.

Big paws shuffled forward in a side-step circle, his frame wrapping around her as his tail gave a slow, wide wag that thudded against the ground behind him. Not frantic. Not wild.

Joyful.

Morrath nuzzled her side with his broad, soot-black muzzle, nosing under her arm until his head rested against her ribs. His horns cast long shadows, but his breath came soft now—heated, but even. Grounding.

He let out a soft chuff, then shifted again, curling his body close—wrapping himself around her like a living barrier of smoke and muscle, of flame barely restrained. Not caging her.

Protecting.

And when he spoke, the voice came deep from his chest, like coals whispering through a canyon:

“…I’m here.”

A vow. A tether reforged.

He pressed his muzzle gently to her temple, the curved edge of a horn brushing her shoulder, and exhaled slow and low.

“Let us stand.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Poise adjusted the glinting edge of his antlered mask, his sharp teeth bared in a grin that held no humor—only purpose. The velvet curtain of smoke lifting from Morrath’s vow had barely begun to settle, but his mind was already dancing ahead like a blade catching candlelight.

With a dramatic flourish, Poise snapped open his fan—one of many unnecessary but fabulous gestures that signaled both style and command.

"Lucy, Gladios, Mallard, Kayn," he purred, voice rich with theatrical flair. “Time to make yourselves ghosts on the rooftops. We’ve work to do, and I'd rather not have the thunder steal our curtain call."

He stepped back, giving them room. "Unseen. Unnamed. You know what to do."

With practiced ease, the four scattered—dashing up walls and leaping over ledges like wind-dancing shadows, silhouettes moving with that same headlong grace as warriors from a different kind of stage. Poise watched them vanish one by one with a pleased hum, then turned, the smile on his face dimming into something more controlled. Calculated.

Only Lucian, Ar’paw, Bellarus, and he remained.

Ar'paws' horn sounded once more, a raw, echoing cry that cut through the weight of soot and silence; beckoning Zhu'gar to push further into the city.


Ephraim stood quietly, eyes still resting on the space where Morrath’s massive form now curled around her—his breath warm, his presence unmistakably real. His words lingered in her mind, quiet but seismic. I’m here.

She blinked, and the sharpness in her gaze softened. She raised one hand, pressing it gently to the place just under his horn, against the thick, scorched fur at his temple. Her thumb brushed along it once—comforting, grounding, like tracing the edge of something sacred.

Then, her attention shifted.

She heard the horn before she saw them. That low, war-torn call. Ar’paw’s cry. Movement flickered across the edges of rooftops, too quick for most eyes—too practiced.

Ephraim’s hand remained on Morrath, but her posture straightened slightly.

“They’re moving,” she murmured. “It’s starting.”

She glanced in the direction of the horn’s echo and then back to Mordecai—no, Morrath—her expression sharpened but sure. “We have a narrow window."

And then, quieter, with the same steadiness as before: “I’ll hold the line with you. Like always." She looked back at Riversong, signaling that they'd provide her cover-- she needed to get to the kids quickly.