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

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Morrath breathed heavily—measured, focused. A low huff rolled from his throat as he knelt beside Ephraim, lowering his body with deliberate control. He offered his back to her to ride upon, horns low, shoulders broad and steady beneath the weight of flame and ash.

“Always,” he growled softly.

His eyes flicked to her, something warm flickering behind the smoke—brief, but clear.

“I’ve held this form for too long,” he rasped. “It’s eating at me. But I can hold it... for this.”

Wrath simmered beneath his voice, heat rising from his sides in curling coils of steam—but it was tempered now, shared. Grounded. He shifted slightly, casting a nod toward Riversong.

Rippletail hadn’t calmed fully, still hovering in the air with waves of tension rolling through its form. Its watery body crashed in tighter ripples around Riversong’s shoulders, but no longer out of panic. Focused now. Alert.

Riversong wiped the tears from her face and nodded to them, her expression steady, the familiar fire returning to her gaze.

“They’ll be safe,” she said, clutching her staff. The crystals at its crown shimmered faintly as Rippletail spiraled downward and dissolved into the floating orbs surrounding it—each one pulsing like droplets ready to strike.

“Come on, Rippletail,” she whispered, turning swiftly toward the estate. Her hooves struck the stone with purpose, her robes trailing water with every stride.

Eryon stepped forward, not too close, but near enough for his presence to be felt. He said nothing at first—just gripped his axe tight, holding it low and outward, not in threat, but in promise. Toward the enemy. Never them.

“We will not fall,” he said simply, nodding once to both Ephraim and Morrath.

Then—the wild echoed changed.

Something stirred at the city’s edge. Laughter. Cackling.

But not joyous. Not full.

Distorted.

Through the old breaches in Umbrafane’s walls—marks of earlier raids and collapsed defenses—came motion. A ripple of shadow. Three hyenas first, their bodies smoke-torn and twitching, more spirit than flesh. They darted like living knives through the streets, scattering citizens in a frenzy of snapping jaws and laughter without mirth.

Then came Zru’gar.

He stalked through the largest hole in the stone, hunched low, his body gaunt and twitching. His fur was falling in patches, bones more visible now, skin blotched with fungal hues—mildewed green creeping into the black of his coat. His mask was cracked, not cleanly—but rotting. The ivory dulled to yellow, curling at the edges like spoiled fruit.

He raised a clawed hand, breath rattling, lips peeled into a snarl.

“Pack... eat,” he croaked.

The hyenas surged forward, teeth bared, smoke trailing off their forms in bladed wisps as they tore through the alleys, hunting.

And far above—

Lucian stood on the spire, unmoved.

He hadn’t flinched at Morrath’s roar. His eyes, always sharp, always seeing, were locked not on the Beast—but on her. Ephraim. Watching her the way a scholar watches a storm build behind stained glass.

He tilted his head slightly. A flick of his panther tail.

Poise, nearby, had already begun his final act.

Lucian turned lazily toward him. “I suppose the show has started,” he murmured, brushing a claw beneath his chin, tapping the porcelain there. His tone was unreadable—cool, distant. But his gaze flicked back to Ephraim.

“She’ll have her stage,” he purred to himself.

And with that—he turned.

One paw lifted in a dismissive wave, towards Poise.

“Have fun,” he said lightly.

And then—he vanished into the shadows.

Gone. But not lost.

Lucian never left the stage.

He simply waited for the right cue.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Poise let out a long, theatrical groan as Lucian vanished into shadow.

He rolled his shoulders, rhinestones flashing like weaponized starlight, and reached up to adjust the edges of his mask. One claw traced the curve of his cheekbone, slow and elegant. Below, the chaos had begun in earnest—hyenas cutting through alleyways, screams echoing through the broken streets. The sky churned with Harwin’s magic, cast in sickly gold and unnatural warmth.

Poise sighed, glancing sideways toward the others standing at his flanks. His eyes landed on one figure in particular.

“Belarus, darling,” he cooed, voice honeyed but sharp around the edges. “You’re up.”

He made a shooing motion with his fingers.

Below, the city stretched open like a mouth ready to scream.

And Belarus stepped forward.

No flair. No flourish.

Just presence.



Four arms extended outward as he dropped from the spire in a silent blur—landing with impossible softness for someone so large. He rose slowly, crimson runes already glowing along his palms, his towering frame unbothered by the chaos that surged nearby.

Ephraim’s eyes locked on Belarus the moment he landed—her breath sharp, body tensing like a drawn bow. The glowing runes on his palms shimmered with ominous intent, and even before he moved, she felt it.

Magic. Old. Bound. Anchored not in force, but in consequence.

A warning.

Her water shifted with her thoughts, responding like a living extension of her rage—tracing up her arms in coiling tendrils of liquid light, sharpened by Vengeance’s veins. Behind her, the massive hand still hovered, pulsing with potential energy—half-formed, trembling with judgment it hadn’t yet been given permission to deliver.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Morrath’s head snapped up as Belarus descended, that massive form landing in silence like a verdict cast from the sky itself.

He stepped forward immediately, rising to his full height in front of Ephraim—protecting, not posturing. The ground trembled faintly beneath his claws as he placed himself between her and the looming shape ahead.

A low, rumbling growl crawled from his chest.

“No.”
His voice crackled like burning coal, head turning just enough to glance back at her. Then to Belarus again.

His tail lashed once, violently. His hackles rose.

A warning.

The roar that followed was thunderous—not an invitation. A command.

Do not come closer.

He remembered him. That same towering sentinel from the chamber. The mask. The runes. The weight of mirrored pain.

Morrath’s chest heaved.

“I’ve fought him before,” he growled, his voice raw but grounded. “He reflects everything back. Doesn’t matter what you hit him with. He makes it yours.”

He glanced at Ephraim again, sharper now—measured, deliberate.
“Don’t waste your fight. Don’t waste your pain.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Belarus tilted his head slowly, the crackle of Morrath’s roar washing over him like wind through dead leaves. The glowing runes along his palms pulsed once in answer—steady, rhythmic. Not in defiance.

In readiness.

He took a single step forward. The ground responded beneath his foot with a muted tremor.

Then another step.

Still slow. Still deliberate.

“I do not come to brawl,” Belarus said, voice deep as stone shifting beneath the sea. “I was born to outlast.”

His shoulders rolled with quiet precision, each motion heavy with intent. His towering form remained relaxed—no sudden strikes, no lunges. Only presence. Dominance earned through patience, not fury.

“You remember me, Beast,” he continued, his tone a low baritone that carried like thunder held behind teeth. “And still you posture as though this will end differently.”

He raised one rune-marked hand, letting the golden light drift along his fingers like liquid metal.

“I was molded for pain,” he rumbled, eyes locked on Morrath now. “I wear it like armor. Your wrath is not a threat.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Morrath raised his head, still standing in front of Ephraim, tail bristling. He bared his teeth, growling low.

“You may not see his wrath as a threat.”

The voice came quiet, steady—like stone settled into the earth.
Eryon stepped forward. One hand gripped the haft of his axe, firm and unshaken.

“But you will feel it.”

His boots planted with purpose. He did not raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“I do not need fury to stand,” he said, gaze locked on Belarus. “I was carved from winters that did not end. I hold the line. That is enough.”

For a breath, he was still. A figure of resolve. The cold before the avalanche.

Then Eryon turned slightly, looking to Mordecai and Ephraim. He gave a respectful bow of his head—not submissive, but resolute. Trusting.

“Go. The city needs you. Bigger threats await.”

Morrath’s growl rumbled low—not hostile, but like the echo of something ancient, something seen and understood. He looked to Ephraim, fire in his breath.

“We need to go. Now.”

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Belarus didn’t move at first. He merely looked at Eryon—his head tilting slightly, that same measured, calculating gaze holding steady. Like a statue deciding whether the wind was worth acknowledging.

"You hold the line," Belarus repeated, voice almost a whisper now. “Good.”

His eyes didn’t linger long on the axe.

He didn’t need to.

“Lines break.”

Then—he moved.

Not fast.

Not charging.

Just forward.

One step, then another, calculated to cut off the exit path behind Ephraim and Morrath. He moved diagonally, slow as water rising, but intentional.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Eryon’s grip tightened on the axe, shoulders squared, eyes locked forward. He said nothing—he didn’t need to. His silence was steadier than any war cry.

He cast one final glance toward Morrath and Ephraim, nodding once.

Then came the roar.

Raw, ancient—ripped from the bloodline of Brakarholt. A donkeykin warrior’s cry. He twirled the massive axe over the pole, muscles coiled, then slammed the blunt end twice against the ground. A ritual. A vow.

Ready.

Eryon charged.

No hesitation—just motion, bracing his weight against Belarus as he crashed in, body and polearm driving together like a wall. He held. Grit teeth. Bellowed over his shoulder:

“GO!”

---

Morrath let out a sharp huff—tense, coiled, wild. Then came the low growl. Urgent.

“Now,” he snapped to Ephraim—no time for questions.

He dropped his head, horns scooping her up like a sling, his thick mane cradling her as he threw her onto his neck in one swift motion. No pause. No ceremony.

Then he ran.

Paws and hooves thundered against the earth, cleaving through the space Eryon had carved for them. He tore through the Riftkin District, each breath labored, sharp—steam rising from his maw in thick, fire-lined bursts.

A flash of motion caught his eye.

To the side—one of Zru’gar’s feral hyenas.

Diseased. Spirit-twisted. Its body mottled and wet with something wrong. It cackled as it bounded toward them.

Morrath didn’t slow. He watched. Waited.

The moment the beast lunged—snarling, teeth aimed for his shoulder—Morrath turned with precision. He roared, ramming his shoulder back with brutal force.

The hyena hit the wall with a sickening crunch, yelping as its body bounced off and crumpled. An imprint carved into the stone.

It staggered, snarling—but Morrath was already gone, pounding forward, fire in his lungs.

He would not stop. Not until they were clear.

---

"....Running again, little goat?" A voice purred to Ephraim. From somewhere. Was she the only one who heard it? Morrath didn't react.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as the wind howled past her ears—each stride of Morrath beneath her a quake, each heartbeat a war drum echoing in her chest. She clung to his mane instinctively, her fingers twisting in the thick, burning fur, but her mind was not in the present.

Not entirely.

That voice.

She flinched—just slightly—but it wasn’t from the wind. Her ears flattened. Her eyes flicked to the shadows racing beside them, above them, within her.

“…No,” she whispered, voice cracking.

“Not this time.”

She looked over her shoulder, Eryon's silhouette fading in the distance.

“Say it again,” she hissed, low, venomous—half to herself, half to the voice that didn’t belong. Her throat tightened. “Come closer. Say it where I can find you.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Morrath huffed low, twisting his head mid-stride to glance back at her. His ears twitched.

Who was she speaking to?

“Wha—” he started, but the words didn’t finish.

Something struck.

Not a blade, not claws—just a ripple in the air, a whisper of shadow slicing beneath his paws like wind turned sentient. He yelped—not from pain, but surprise—as his footing faltered. His massive form tumbled forward, skidding hard into the stone. Dust and heat burst around them.

A rough growl tore from his throat as he shook his head, claws scraping the ground. No blood. No wound. But something had knocked him off course—and it wasn’t physical.

He sniffed sharply, teeth bared, ears pinned.

Then—

clink…

A sound too delicate for the moment echoed from the alley beside them.

A cracked wine glass rolled slowly into the open, catching the firelight. Not shattered. Not broken. Just imperfect. Inside it, cradled in black liquid that didn’t spill, floated a single matte-black ticket.

Meant not for Morrath—

—but for her.

The ticket glimmered faintly as the glass came to a gentle stop at Ephraim’s feet. Ornate crimson lettering curled across its surface, etched like silk into shadow.

---

Manifest: 1 passenger.
Luggage: Guilt. Grief. One unsent prayer.

This is your invitation, not your command.

---

A calling card.
A trap wrapped in elegance.
And it had come only for her.
Tracing from the alley.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim stared at the glass.

The world around her fell away—Morrath’s labored breath, the firelight flickering off broken walls, even the fading sound of Harlekin laughter in the distance. All of it dulled beneath the ringing silence that coiled around that delicate, unbroken stem.

A wine glass.

Black liquid.

A ticket.

Her name wasn’t written on it.

But it might as well have been.

Her jaw clenched. The swirling energy in her veins pulsed again, flickering with pale blue light and a crackle of something colder, meaner. Vengeance hummed behind her ribs, unspoken but present—watching. Ready.

"Manifest," she read aloud, voice low.

She didn’t need to ask who it was from. She knew.

That insufferable, slithering bastard. With his purring little riddles. He’d always been there—just out of reach. And now he wanted her to follow.

To walk willingly into whatever web he’d strung between blood and theatrics.

She should have turned away.

Should have destroyed the glass.

Should have cast the ticket into flame and declared herself done.

But she didn’t.

Because Morrath would want Lucian dead.

And so would she.

She stepped down.

Not fast. Not afraid. Just… ready.

Her hoof clicked softly against the stone as she crouched, fingers hovering above the rim of the glass. She looked over her shoulder, just once.

At Morrath. At everything they’d survived.

Then forward again.

Her fingers curled around the ticket.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Morrath watched her, breath low and steady. His eyes flicked to the glass, to the quiet storm of energy rising off it.

He knew.

A low huff rumbled from his chest as he rose to full height, firelight catching along the curve of his horns. He met her gaze—saw the flame behind her eyes, the pale crackle of Vengeance threading her veins.

He dipped his head, slow and solemn.

“…Be careful,” he murmured, the words rough but steady.

Then, one step forward—just enough to close the distance, not to stop her, but to send her off.

“I believe in you.”

His voice was quiet. Just for her. A vow without armor.

Then he let her go.

---

Down the alley, the world narrowed. Umbrafane’s streets faded into quiet ruin behind her, replaced by darkness thick as velvet. The air shifted—cooler, unnatural, alive.

At the alley’s end, a door of shadow awaited. Small, flickering, its surface writhing with the same sinuous energy that lived in Mordecai’s curse—but different now. Twisted.

Refined.

The edges of the door rippled like slow ink in water. Shadow-tendrils extended outward—not violent, not grasping, but… offering. Like a hand extended in invitation, reaching gently for the ticket she now held.

Not dragging her in.

Just waiting.

Patient.

Ready to open.

Only for her.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim walked forward with the quiet certainty of someone past the point of indecision. The distant sounds of Umbrafane—the battle, the chaos, the burning sky—had dulled to a distant hum behind her, like a memory she hadn’t yet decided to keep. Every step into the alley narrowed her world, the air thickening, cooling, shifting. The shadows ahead weren’t darkness—they were intention. That door at the end wasn’t just a door. It pulsed like a heartbeat she hadn’t realized she shared.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t call out Lucian’s name. There was no need to announce herself here. Whatever this place was—wherever it led—it already knew her. The ticket in her hand pulsed once more, like it was breathing against her palm, echoing that strange, swirling rhythm still buried in her chest. Her hoofsteps slowed as she neared the door, stopping just shy of its writhing edge. The tendrils of shadow extended with eerie calm, not grasping or forcing—just there, waiting. Welcoming, in their own unsettling way.

She didn’t hesitate. Not from bravery, not from recklessness—but because there was no part of her left that needed to wonder what might happen. The ticket had been cast like a line in water, and she had bitten down on it willingly. She lifted her hand and let the paper fall. It vanished without sound into the rippling dark, swallowed whole by whatever force had woven this space.

Ephraim stood straighter. She didn’t flinch, didn’t turn. If Lucian had written her into this scene, then she would act it out. If he’d built a stage, she’d walk it on her terms. If it was a trap… she’d make sure he regretted ever baiting it.

She took one final breath and stepped into the dark.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

The alley vanished with the soft finality of a stage curtain falling. One blink. One breath.

And then the world reshaped itself.



A thundering hum beneath Ephraim’s feet announced the presence of something massive—moving—before her vision fully cleared. The void had not vanished. It had become something structured. She now stood on the back platform of a train’s caboose, iron railings cold beneath her hands, the tremble of motion vibrating up through the soles of her hooves.

All around her: blackness, wind, motion.
The shadow train carved its path through nothingness—not over tracks, but through the void itself. Shadowflames roared along its undercarriage, flaring in rhythmic surges, casting brief glimmers of heatless light. Wind that shouldn’t exist in a place like this pressed hard against the train’s sides, howling as though trying to catch up.

The train itself was forged from a blend of function and elegance—dark riveted metal, old-world fittings, and traces of something refined, not opulent. Not of Poise’s kind, but something older. Wiser. With weight.

Ahead, the caboose door stood out against the dark iron, painted in deep oxblood red, its glass framed in intricate, curling brasswork. It opened without touch. Just a slow, smooth crack—an invitation, not a demand.

From within spilled a sliver of warm light, golden and low like the lighting of a gentleman’s parlor at the end of a long night. It brought with it the scent of brandy, aged and amber-rich, and cigar smoke, curling outward in tendrils—almost thoughtful in the way it drifted, as though even the smoke was aware of her presence.

Then, the voice.

Smooth.
Velvet.
Close, though no one could be seen yet.

“Well… it’s about time.”

The door opened a little wider.

And the train kept moving.

.....

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim’s hand lingered on the iron railing a moment longer, the chill of it grounding her as her senses recalibrated. She could feel her pulse again, slow and deliberate, like the deep thrum of the train beneath her. The void that had surrounded her wasn’t empty—it was purposeful, coiled around her like a velvet curtain just pulled back to reveal the stage.

The weight of the ticket still tingled faintly in her fingertips, even though it was long gone. A trick of the mind, maybe. Or a sign that she was exactly where she was meant to be—whether that was a mercy or a trap.

Her gaze drifted forward, to the red door with its curling brass frame and that warm golden light that didn’t quite match the world outside. It shouldn’t have felt welcoming. It should’ve set every alarm in her blood screaming. But instead, she found herself... curious. Tired, yes. Cautious. But also pulled.

The voice that rolled out—silk wrapped around a knife—made her jaw tighten. She didn’t answer it right away. Instead, she took a breath and rolled her shoulders, as if shedding the weight of a city on fire, of a beast’s roar still echoing in her chest.

She stepped forward.

The door parted smoothly, as though it had been waiting for her to stop thinking and simply act. She paused at the threshold, letting the scent of smoke and old brandy curl around her like an old memory. Her voice, when it came, was quiet but steady.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

As the door glided open, the world inside unfolded with disarming grace—far larger than the car should have allowed, like stepping into the memory of a room rather than a room itself. The walls were paneled in rich, dark wood, polished to a mirror sheen. Warm, amber light spilled from art-deco sconces that flickered softly beneath frosted glass, casting layered shadows that moved like they had thoughts of their own. A phonograph nestled in the far corner played a low, crackling jazz melody—old, smooth, the kind that curled behind the ears and lingered like smoke.

And smoke there was.

Lucian reclined with predatory poise on a velvet chaise, one leg folded elegantly over the other. A glass of bourbon rested in his hand, untouched but gently swirling. A cigar smoldered between his fingers, casting thin trails of gray that climbed toward the dark-paneled ceiling. He looked as if he belonged to this space—no, as if the space belonged to him, shaped around his exact stillness.

The porcelain mask upon his face was as familiar as it was chilling: molded to resemble the sleek angles of a panther’s muzzle, the mark of a Harlekin. But layered atop it was something new—a second mask, heavier, darker. It hugged the porcelain like armor, gloss-black and glinting, shaped in the same feline design but with no warmth, no fragility. It was not for elegance. It was for survival.

Lucian’s gaze lifted as she entered. Behind the twin masks, his posture remained languid—one arm draped, one ear flicked, his tail curling slowly like a serpent at rest.

He purred.

“Ephraim…”

Her name slid from his mouth like a compliment or a curse—indistinguishable.

“Welcome.”

There was no warmth to it. No hostility either. Just that unnerving neutrality—the way a host might greet a guest he already knew wouldn’t leave.

He brought the glass to his lips and took a measured sip, the ice clinking faintly.

Then, almost idly:

“You wore the ticket well. Most struggle more with the fit.”

A pause. The cigar turned in his fingers.

“But then, I suppose some coats are tailored from trauma.”

He didn’t rise. He didn’t move.

He didn’t need to.

The train was already moving. And Ephraim had already stepped inside.

He looked to her. "May I offer you a drink?" He said, gesturing to a bottle of champagne. "Unfortunately for you, I'm out of wine."

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim coughed once, sharp and involuntary, as the cigar smoke curled against her throat. The air in the car was thick with it—spiced and aged, like it had been hanging here long before her arrival. She waved a hand slightly in front of her, not out of weakness, but irritation. Theatrical bastard. Every scent in this room had been chosen with intention. Each note like a needle beneath the skin.

Her eyes scanned the space—warily, curiously. The vastness of it, the impossible scale, the illusion of comfort—it made her skin crawl. There was beauty in it, yes, but the kind of beauty that covered something rotten. Like velvet lining a coffin. She took a step forward, slow and even, eyes landing at last on the mask.

The second one.

She stared at it for a moment. That hardened outer layer, black and seamless, wrapped like a shell around the porcelain beneath. She could almost feel it—what it meant. Insurance. Protection. A cage for the only thing that mattered.

He was afraid of dying.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t sneer. Just nodded once, as if to say, Ah. So you’re not untouchable either.

When he offered the drink—when that word, wine, left his mouth like a spider crawling across a silk napkin—her whole body stilled.

It didn’t show on her face. Not at first.

Just her fingers, curling once. Her jaw, tightening beneath the surface.

“That’s cute,” she said, voice low and dry. Her hooves clicked softly against the train floor as she approached, slow, deliberate. “You remember how they died, then.”

She didn’t sit. Didn’t touch the glass. Her eyes flicked to the champagne bottle, then back to him—unflinching.

“I’m not here to toast ghosts with the man who made them.”

Her gaze sharpened—not with rage, but with clarity.

“I’m here to kill you.”

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian didn’t flinch. He sat there, calm as ever, slowly drawing from his cigar. The smoke curled past his muzzle, deliberate and slow—like everything he did. He tapped the ash onto a silver tray with an absent flick of his claw.

“Yes, yes,” he murmured, waving one paw lazily through the air. “You’ve come to kill me. I’m touched.”

His eyes found hers again. Sharp. Enjoying the moment.

“Toast ghosts with the man who made them,” he repeated, tasting the phrase. A low purr rumbled in his throat. “Now that’s poetry. Unoriginal, perhaps, but poetry.”

Then—he dropped it.

“Who? Orlin?”

The name landed like dust on polished marble. His tone didn’t change, but his gaze lingered.

Lucian stood—slow, languid, graceful. He stretched like a cat shaking off sleep, one leg sliding across the carpet with deliberate control. His tail curled once as he reached the bar cart nearby, setting his bourbon glass down without a sound.

He turned back toward her.

“We’ll have a little fun first,” he said, not mockingly, not cruel. Just factual. Measured. Engaged.

His paw passed over the cigar again, letting the smoke rise like incense in a temple.

“Each car,” he continued, “is a memory. Yours, naturally. I don’t keep such clutter. I merely… curate it.”

He walked past her—not too close—then reclined back onto the chaise with casual ease. Hands behind his head. Legs crossed. Like a man awaiting the next act of a play he’d already memorized.

“You’ll walk through doors and call it progress. You’ll see faces and swear they’re real. And maybe…” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Just maybe, you’ll start to believe you were ever in control.”

Silence.

Then—one last glance her way. Calm. Amused.

“Come now, Thalienne,” he purred. “Show me that mercy you’ve wrapped around your spine. Or vengeance, if that’s the mood.”

He didn’t wait.

Lucian’s form shimmered—wreathed in flickering shadows, tendrils of ink and smoke unraveling him from the inside out. Then—gone.

The car around Ephraim trembled.

The lights dimmed—flickered—died.

The walls shifted. The ceiling breathed. A low groan rippled through the floorboards like something beneath the car had woken up.

The train kept roaring forward.

And the game had begun.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim stood alone now, the scent of smoke still curling in the air like a ghost refusing to leave. Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t speak. Not at first.

The name Thalienne still rang in her ears. It wasn’t just bait—it was a thread. Old. Deeper than memory. Not a name she remembered, but one her bones flinched at. As if somewhere, long ago, it belonged to her before Ephraim ever did.

She didn’t chase after Lucian. Not yet.

Instead, she reached for the rail along the wall and steadied herself as the train shuddered again. The whole car seemed to breathe around her—metal and wood flexing in unnatural rhythm. Whatever illusion bound this place, it was thick with his influence. Magic soaked into every screw and velvet trim, every sigh of motion beneath her hooves.

A memory train.

Her life, packaged, curated—twisted under his mask.

Ephraim exhaled once, slow and hard through her nose. Her shoulders squared. Her fingers twitched, and a ripple of water shimmered along the backs of her hands, drawn not by fear, but focus.

So that’s how he wanted to play it.

“Fine,” she whispered. Not to him. To herself. “Let’s see what you think you know.”

She turned to the first door. The handle glinted—brass, elegant, ornate in that same sharp, pointed way Lucian favored. It didn’t creak when she touched it. It sighed open, like a breath held too long finally released.

Ephraim didn’t look back.

Not once.

She stepped through.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

FRACTURELINE​

A Challenge of Memory, Will, and Shadow

“You’ve boarded a train that doesn’t run on tracks—it runs on you. Your breath, your past, your pain. Each car opens a door you never meant to revisit. And somewhere, in the flicker between thoughts, he’s watching. Always.”

Aboard a surreal, ever-moving shadow train crafted by Lucian’s will, Ephraim enters a test of endurance, identity, and memory. This is not traditional combat—it is a psychological confrontation, each phase peeling back another layer of her soul.

Through a series of illusion-warped train cars, Ephraim must face past wounds and inner truths. Only by holding onto her Resolve can she challenge the one waiting at the end.

---

What This Challenge Is​

You are stepping into a shadow-bound plane shaped by memory, illusion, and the will of something intelligent—Lucian.

This is not a fight of strength.
This is a fight of resolve.

You’ll travel through a series of train cars, each holding a memory or emotional challenge meant to disorient, fracture, or consume. Your goal is not just to survive, but to endure, accept, and reclaim your sense of self before the end.

---

YOUR RESOLVE METER​

Your inner strength is tracked by your Resolve Meter.



You start at 0 Resolve. The higher it grows, the more control and power you reclaim.

---

PHASE ONE: The Cars​

Each train car is a memory Lucian twists against you.

• Each car has 3 rounds of dice rolls
• In each round, both players roll 1d10
• Your result is compared to Lucian's (the DM’s)

Narratively, you always move forward—but how you move forward is shaped by these rolls:

• Do you strike back?
• Do you break down?
• Do you endure?

---

PHASE TWO: The Duel​

If your Resolve Meter remains strong enough at the end of the cars, the shadows will shift into something sharper—a final trial awaits.

• In this phase, you’ll roll 1d10 per duel round
• You may spend Resolve Points to boost your rolls
• Choose wisely—your strength is limited

Best of 5 rounds determines the victor.

---

Final Notes​

• This experience is highly narrative. While the dice guide the challenge, your emotional reactions, dialogue, and descriptions matter more than ever.
• You will be pushed, tested, and forced to reckon with truths you may have buried.
• Lucian is not just an enemy. He is a mirror. A surgeon. A shadow.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Car 1: The Dining
As the door sighed shut behind her, the light changed.

The warmth of the last car vanished, swallowed by a colder tone—soft amber dulled into a pallid gray. Ephraim stood in the estate’s dining room, but it wasn’t just a memory. It was posed. Curated.

The long table stretched before her, polished and dark, its surface reflecting faint ripples from overhead chandeliers that didn’t sway. The walls were perfect. Too perfect. Not a scratch on the woodwork, not a wrinkle in the curtains. This wasn’t how the house remembered itself—this was how Lucian remembered her remembering it.

Her family was there.

Mordecai, Castara, Rhea, Callabassas, Riversong, Jasper, Ulysses, Janus,—each seated exactly as they had been. But they were frozen, mid-gesture, mid-expression, statues in grayscale. Riversong’s mouth slightly open, as if about to speak. Jasper’s glass half-raised. None of them breathed.

But at the far end of the table, Tiz and Alra moved.

Tiz’s voice broke the stillness—faint, muffled, like it came from behind thick glass. He fumbled for his silverware, scoffing, saying something sharp and lazy, something careless. His hands didn’t stop twitching. His movements were too fast, too shallow, like a recording just slightly sped up.

Alra was the opposite. Her gestures were slow, liquid, dreamlike. Her face was soft, but vacant. Like she was there… but watching from somewhere else.

Then, she turned. Her eyes found Ephraim.

And she smiled.

“This dinner is lovely, Ephraim. I’m glad you could have us.”

Her voice was calm. Too calm. It echoed softly as if the room wasn’t quite real. As if the air itself didn’t trust what it was holding.

Then—silence.

Not total silence. Just the kind that waits.

A voice slithered in from nowhere and everywhere at once. Cool, unhurried, velvet along the edge of something sharp.

“Ah yes... I remember this night.”

Lucian’s voice purred from the walls, from the wood, from the silverware.

“We both know you do. Such an elegant piece of memory.”

The air shifted. The chandelier lights dimmed slightly, not with shadow, but with mood.

And then the floor began to shimmer.

At first, it was just a dark sheen along the baseboards. Then it crept forward, pooling wine across the hardwood floor. Slow. Rising. Three inches deep, rippling faintly. Crimson and reflective.

But the scent wasn’t of wine.

It wasn’t even of poison.

It was subtle. Familiar.

Leaves of Smoothing.

That faint, bittersweet herbal aroma—too delicate to sting, too haunting to ignore. The kind of scent that curled into memory and stayed there. That clung to fabric. That clung to skin.

Lucian’s voice returned, quieter now. More intimate.

“Oh yes… Leaves of Soothing. Your mother loved that, didn’t she?”

“Not for the escape. Not really. No, no. For the stillness. The silence. The pause between breaths.”

A pause.

Then, soft as silk sliding across the nape of her neck:

“Tell me, Ephraim. When you tasted the wine that night… did you really think it was his barrel? Or did you simply need it to be?”

The wine shimmered around her hooves.

And the memory had only just begun.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim didn’t flinch. Not when the voice curled from the chandelier, not when the scent rose from the floor like a question with no answer. Her hooves didn’t move as the rippling wine pooled around them, nor did her eyes dart from face to face. Instead, she stood still—brows soft, hands folded in front of her. Watching.

This was a memory. But not just a memory.

It was curated, yes. Touched. Shaped. But not unfamiliar. This was how she remembered it.

She looked down the table, her gaze brushing across the still, perfect faces. Rhea mid-laugh. Ulysses caught in the middle of saying something probably too clever. Callabassas and Janus—forever halfway to a toast. She loved them all. Gods, she missed them. But she didn’t reach for them. She knew better. They weren’t really here.

Her gaze stopped on Tiz.

He was sharp, even now. Angry at something small, something domestic—too much salt in the meat, the knife set wrong, a servant late to clear the soup. He was always like that. Not cruel. Just hard. Harder than he needed to be. She used to think she could fix it. Now, she only watched. Quiet.

But when Alra turned—when she smiled—

Ephraim felt something tighten.

That was what had haunted her most. Not the death. Not even the poisoning. It was the smile. Her mother’s smile. That quiet, aching softness. Like she knew. Like she’d made peace. Like the whole night had been a gift she’d offered Ephraim without asking if she wanted it.

Ephraim met her gaze. Didn’t smile back. Didn’t run. She stood in the crimson wine, let the scent of Soothing leaves drift into her lungs, and just… let it happen.

She swallowed.

“I remember,” she said softly, her voice barely above the hum of the jazz.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim roll placeholder.

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian placeholder

 

[ThieviusRaccoonus]

Lucian wins round:
Ephraim Resolve: 0

The chandelier’s flicker steadied again—but not back to normal. This time, the light shifted subtly across the table, bending itself unnaturally, casting a narrow golden beam down onto one figure in particular.

Riversong.

She sat mid-motion, frozen like the others, her hand paused in the act of pouring. A crystal decanter suspended in the air, tilting toward Tiz’s goblet. Her face bore no smile. No warmth. Just practiced calm—almost clinical.

The air thickened.

Lucian’s voice returned—closer now. Still unseen, but undeniably present.

“Ah. There it is.”

“Riversong.”

The way he said her name was not accusatory. It was curious. Intrigued. Like a painter admiring a subtle flaw in a masterpiece.

“She poured the wine, didn’t she? Not the servant. Not Orlin.”

Another ripple passed through the wine at Ephraim’s hooves, as though the liquid had acknowledged something before she had.

“Funny thing, memory. We remember the scent. The weight of the cup. The way the glass trembled—”
A pause. A soft purr.
“But not always who placed it in our hand.”

The golden light over Riversong slowly narrowed, framing her like a figure in a gallery. Her face remained impassive. Unreadable. Her fingers, just barely, clutched the neck of the decanter like something meant to be held tighter.

Lucian continued, silk with barbs.

“She never liked Alra, did she? That much was obvious. Always so… protective of you. So certain your mother’s illness was just weakness.”

“She smiled at the funeral, you know. Not with her lips. With her relief.”

A pause.

“And what did she say to you, afterward? When it was done? What comforting truth did she offer, to make the poison easier to swallow?”

The lights dimmed again.

The gold beam vanished. The wine settled.

But Lucian’s voice remained, soft now—closer, almost whispered just beneath the skin.

“Are you so sure she wasn’t guilty, Ephraim? Since you apparently know so much.” A sound in the background. Unseen. But Orlin's dying gasp when Mordecai struck him down. Wrath's judgement.

And then silence.

The train groaned faintly.

Somewhere in the distance, the jazz needle skipped once more.

 

[scantilycladsnail]

Ephraim didn’t move—not at first. The golden light that bathed Riversong’s still form cast shadows across the table, long and elegant, like judgment made beautiful. Her eyes locked on the decanter frozen mid-pour. Her breath caught.

She hadn’t remembered that part.

Had she?

The scent had always overpowered the room. The way her mother’s head tilted, the quiet between conversations, the silence that settled too early that night—those details stood out. But this? This image—Riversong, hand poised at the neck of the bottle, eyes calm, not warm—this felt wrong. Off. But also… too perfect to dismiss.

Ephraim’s jaw tensed.

Lucian’s words slithered through her, and for a heartbeat, she didn’t have an answer. She loved Riversong. Had trusted her with pieces of herself too fragile to show anyone else. She had become another mother—soothing in different ways. A presence Ephraim didn't question.

But Lucian knew exactly how to make questions linger.

Ephraim’s gaze narrowed. “Alra and she… didn’t always see each other. But she never would’ve—”

Her voice cracked just slightly. A fissure.

“I don’t think she would’ve.”

The wine shimmered again at her feet.

She looked up at Riversong, really looked, trying to remember. Had there been a moment? Something in the way she had held her afterward? The things she hadn’t said?

“She always told me… Alra was gentle. That she was a good mother.... with a difficult condition."

Ephraim’s shoulders slumped—barely—but she didn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of Lucian.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.