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Neutral
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This is a roleplay between myself and Mother- please do not post here unless your name is stated above. :) Thank you. Plot/Storyline: Every hundred years, a mortal girl is chosen by the Moon Temple to serve as the Bride of the Night King—a terrifying ancient being who rules the shadowed realm beyond the mortal veil. None have ever returned. But this time, the bride chosen is not who she seems. She has no intention of being sacrificed. No intention of dying quietly. And he—the immortal king forged from starlight and sorrow—has no intention of keeping another heartbroken doll in his cage. But fate has other plans. Because the moon is bleeding, the stars are falling, and something ancient has awakened beneath the earth… something that knows both their names. World: A hauntingly beautiful world where celestial magic, divine curses, and ancient beings shape life and death. The people of the world worship two twin celestial deities: • Solvara – the Sun Goddess, patron of truth, life, war. • Lunareth – the Moon God, patron of dreams, death, prophecy. Once balanced, the gods grew distant after the Fall of the Celestials, and their realms slowly drifted into decay. The mortal world still honors their worship, but in fear—not love. It's name you wonder? Narethial. Realms of Narethial: Thaloria; Mortal lands bathed in Gold and Marble. Ruled by priest-Kings and Queens who worship the Sun Godess. Magic is sacred, tightly controlled. Every century a Human Girl is selected for marriage as Bride of the Moon. Umbrythar: The dark moonlit realm of the Night King. Floating temples, star scattered forrests & creatures born of shadow and memory. Ruled by the Eclipse court, immortal beings are tied to their King. The Hallow below; A sealed buried realm of banished gods and primal horrors. Some say a Great sleeper stirs beneath the land- waiting for the sun and moon to fall. Edited at July 31, 2025 04:33 PM by Megan :)
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Neutral
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🌿Vessaria Nemea🌿 Age: 22 Race: Mortal (suspected divine heritage) Role: Chosen Bride of the Moon Origin: Temple-city of Caer Vethiel, Thaloria ⸻ 🌘 Appearance Face Vessaria possesses the kind of beauty that doesn’t shimmer—it haunts. Her features are finely sculpted, balanced on the edge of human and something slightly more… celestial. Her cheekbones are high and pale, casting soft shadows when she turns her head. Her face is narrow and long, lending her a solemn grace, like a figure from an ancient mosaic brought to life. Her nose is slender and straight, elegant in its simplicity. Her lips are cool-toned and full, with a natural rose-gray hue that makes her look perpetually on the edge of speech or prayer. They curve subtly at the corners, not in joy, but in reflection—the face of a woman who mourns before she even knows what she has lost. Her eyes are her most striking feature: wide and heavy-lashed, a shade of silvery violet so pale they border on colorless. They carry no warmth, only weight—the weight of stars, of omens, of ancient silences. Staring into them is like looking into the Veil itself. When the moon is full, her pupils shrink to slits, reflecting the light like glass. Her skin is smooth and untouched by the sun, bearing a strange soft luminescence like polished marble. Cold to the touch. Unscarred, unfreckled—perfect, in the most unnerving way. It’s whispered that her skin will not bruise, and that no ink will stain her. Her brows are long and gently arched, always composed, yet expressive. When she frowns, the whole room feels it. ⸻ Hair Vessaria’s hair is long enough to sweep the backs of her knees when unbound. Obsidian black, it holds hidden strands of silvery gray that shimmer like starlight when caught in moonlight. Thick and soft, it is usually braided with ceremonial ribbons or clasped with temple pins of white jade and glass pearls. It smells faintly of lavender, salt, and ancient incense. ⸻ Body & Presence Standing at 5’9”, she carries herself with regal stillness, as though her bones were carved from ritual. Her body is lean, willowy, and veiled beneath traditional bridal silks. Her movements are slow, precise, and too quiet—almost unnatural in their grace. Even when alone, she moves as if being watched. She wears ankle bells to announce her steps during the bridal procession, but often they do not chime—either because of her stillness, or something more arcane. ⸻ 🕯️Personality Traits Eerily Composed Vessaria does not cry. She does not raise her voice. Her emotions run deep but are sealed beneath layers of devotion and restraint. To see her falter is to see the world bend. Devout with Fractured Faith She was raised in sacred halls and believes in prophecy, duty, and the balance between realms. But as her day of binding approaches, something inside her begins to fray—a quiet, growing hunger for answers, for autonomy, for truth. Quietly Observant She is always watching. She learns others through silence—how they shift their weight, the words they avoid, the lies they coat in poetry. She speaks with intention, and every word feels chosen by design. Magnetically Unnerving There is a gravity to Vessaria—not warmth, but fascination. People are drawn to her the way they are drawn to storms on distant hills. She inspires awe, discomfort, and reverence in equal measure. Some want to touch her. Others want to flee her presence. Bound by Ritual, Craving Freedom Her entire life has been structured by sacred rites: the way she walks, eats, speaks, even breathes. But buried under that structure is a soul aching to choose something—anything—for herself. Dream-Touched Since birth, her dreams have not been her own. She walks temples she’s never seen, hears voices long dead, feels sorrow from other lifetimes. She has learned not to speak of them, but they guide her still. ⸻ 💔 Backstory Born on the Winter Solstice during a lunar eclipse, Vessaria was declared Moon-Touched before she drew her first breath. Her mother died moments after childbirth; her father vanished before she was born. The high priests called it divine will, and took her to the Moon Temple of Caer Vethiel to be raised as a vessel. She was trained from infancy in prophecy, song, and sacred rites. Taught to walk in silence, kneel in perfect form, and dream without fear. Unlike others before her, Vessaria never resisted the call. She accepted her role with chilling serenity. She believes she was made for this fate. But now, as she nears the final crossing into Umbrythar, something stirs beneath her devotion: a whisper not from the gods, but from herself. And perhaps, even deeper—from the darkness below the Veil, where something ancient remembers her name.
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Neutral
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Thaloria — The Realm of Radiance A sprawling empire of sun-drenched marble cities, golden plains, and sacred temples, Thaloria is the realm of mortals, governed by a theocratic aristocracy devoted to Solvara, the Sun Goddess of life, truth, and war. Its beauty is radiant, but its society is rigid, built upon divine law and unshakable hierarchy. Magic is considered divine breath — holy, dangerous, and forbidden to the uninitiated. Government & Faith: • The Solsanctum: A ruling caste of Priest-Kings and Queens, believed to be chosen vessels of Solvara, presides over each major province. • The Dawnbinders: Elite mage-priests who act as scholars, enforcers, and spiritual judges. They alone are permitted to wield sanctioned magic within Thaloria. • The Celestis Creed: A doctrine that teaches mortals were sculpted from light and shadow, and must ever strive toward the sun — the divine path of order, glory, and enlightenment. Magic is known as Aetherlight — a radiant, structured force said to descend directly from Solvara’s divine essence. Only the Dawnbinders and ordained elite can wield it, using: • Glyph-Inscribed Mirrors for casting divine reflection spells. • Solar Sigils etched into armor and skin for protection or healing. • The Chain of Penance, a holy artifact that binds magic into penitent wielders, often used as punishment. 🕳 The Hallow Below — The Realm Beneath All Things Older than sun or moon, deeper than any root. The Hallow Below is not just a realm — it is a wound, a prison, and a prophecy. Sealed beneath the lands of Narethial lie the Banished Gods, exiled during the Celestial Schism. Though trapped, their whispers poison dreams, and their agents walk unseen among mortals and moonborn alike. Legends & Myths: • The Great Sleeper: A titan bound in chains of stardust and bone, fated to rise when sun and moon fall. Known by many names: The Eater of Stars, The Hollow Flame, He Who Breathes Silence. • The Wyrm Priests: Cults who worship the exiled gods, believing freedom will bring truth and rebirth through annihilation. • The Forgotten Chain: A divine artifact said to seal the gates of the Hallow. Only a being of both realms — sun and moon — can unbind it. Geography: • The Cradle Maw – A chasm in Umbrythar where no stars shine. It hums with hunger. • The Shatterdeep – Beneath Thaloria, where the foundations of old temples lie buried and hollow-eyed guardians walk. • The Rootforge – A domain of impossible geometry and bleeding stone, where gravity bends and time leaks backward. Magic: Twisted, primal, and forbidden. Known as Hollowcraft: • Riftmancy: Tearing veils between worlds. Dangerous, maddening, often irreversible. • Unmaking: The opposite of creation; erases things from memory, history, and existence. • Curse-Grafting: Binding divine punishment into the bones of mortals, sometimes passed through generations.
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Darkseeker
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Name: Ciaran Age: Unknown. Appears to be in his early-to-mid twenties Rank: the Night King, Lord of Umbrythar Appearance Credits to me Ciaran is an imposing creature, standing at 6'4 and sporting a lean but muscular build. He holds himself with an air of icy regality, and his movements reflect the same. His features carry a rugged elegance: a strong, angular jaw lined with faint shadow, a slightly crooked nose that suggests it was once broken, and sharp cheekbones that catch starlight like the edge of a blade. There’s a roughness to the pristine, though, a kind of weathered perfection, as if he were chiseled not by hand but by time itself -- long centuries carved into every plane of his face. He looks like someone shaped to command, not charm. His skin is deep violet and indigo, scattered with faint, shifting constellations -- stars that glimmer softly beneath the surface, too precise to be decoration and too alive to be scars. Their pattern changes slowly as he moves, like the rippling of camouflaged fabric. His complexion is matte and smooth, yet ethereal, seeming to draw in the light and hold it back in quiet defiance. The darkness envelops him, often obscuring him until he wills it away with a nonchalant wave. If he wishes, he can change his skin tone something a little more human-friendly, taking on a more bronze tan complexion and ditching the shadows and starlight. Ciaran’s eyes are silver and unreadable, bright without warmth, like ancient moonlight reflected off frozen stone. They seem to pierce straight through the world, measuring everything in silence. There is no softness or emotion in his gaze, only gravity and the cold weight of knowing. When he looks at someone, it’s not with interest or disdain, but with the still detachment of something that has watched entire civilizations rise and fall and found none of them worth mourning. His silver hair is worn fairly short, falling in windswept, tousled layers that brush the tops of his ears and the back of his neck. Unparted and untouched by styling, it moves freely with the air, loose and unbothered. Despite its disarray, it only enhances his overall wild but controlled appearance. Every strand glimmers faintly, echoing the shimmer of starlight in his skin. His voice, when he speaks, is low and resonant, rich with depth and stillness, like the hush before a storm. It is the kind of voice that does not raise to be heard, but lowers the room to silence. When he speaks, time seems to stretch just slightly thinner, as if the world itself leans in to listen. Personality Detached || Calculating || Strategic || Logical || Apathetic || Stubborn || Meticulous || Vindictive Ciaran is the embodiment of detachment, a being utterly removed from the noise and sentiment of mortal life. He does not love, he does not grieve, and he certainly does not hope. To him, emotion is a liability, an unpredictable flaw in otherwise efficient systems. He is not heartless in the sense of cruelty, but absolutely in the literal sense: he operates without the need for empathy or connection. Mortals are tools, obstacles, or (rarely) assets. If they weep, bleed, or beg, it makes no difference to him. He works hard to ensure his responses are always precise, always calculated, and never impulsive. He is a master strategist, one who sees the board generations ahead of his pieces. Every action, every silence, is deliberate. He does not act without intent, and he never allows instinct or feeling to cloud his decisions. Ciaran weighs outcomes like weights on a scale, discarding variables that don’t serve the greater function. Logic guides him in a cold, methodical, and absolute sort of way. He is the kind of ruler who would sacrifice thousands to prevent the fall of millions and feel no need to explain why. Results are what matter. And once he decides on a course of action, it is nearly impossible to divert him. Meticulous to the point of obsession, Ciaran leaves no detail unaccounted for. He notices everything -- expressions, patterns, inconsistencies -- and files them away for future use. He does not forget, nor does he forgive. Time means nothing to him; he will wait centuries to repay a slight if it serves his justice. He is vindictive; whether revenge is executed in a passionate, raging sense or in a slow, exacting one depends heavily on the situation. Betrayal is not answered with fury, but with a carefully designed ruin. He sees retribution as balance, not vengeance. Even those closest to him -- should anyone be so unfortunate -- find only distance and walls. He does not open, and he certainly does not soften. His trust must be earned through flawless precision, and even then, it is conditional and cold. Ciaran is not driven by love or duty or pain. He is driven by purpose. And whatever that purpose is, once it’s fixed in his mind, the rest of the world becomes either a means to achieve it or something to be removed. Abilities Shadow Hopping: the ability to move from place to place via the shadows. Very efficient. Can take people or other creatures with him, but they have to be touching him, so it can only be a small group at a time Dreamweaving: pushes dreams into reality, allowing him to create large mirages and a sort of 4D experience within them. Has mild effects on emotion manipulation, but he cannot force anyone to feel a certain way Umbrakinesis: the bending of the shadows to his will. He can also use them as his eyes, peering through them like windows Might add as I think of others Strengths Immortality -- gives him a physical bonus Playing the long game / patience Tactician -- also very good at strategy-based games
Basically immune to magical attacks and mental intrusions Weaknesses Immortality -- the centuries and prophecies all blur together, leaving him knowing so much that he can't quite sort reality from possibility at times Bound by ancient laws and rites, limiting his power and influence, and is intimately tied to the wellbeing of the celestial balance Does NOT take failure well, even in the most mundane circumstances Devoid of connection and trust Other Edited at August 1, 2025 10:09 AM by Mother
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Neutral
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The dawn broke over the gilded spires of Virelleon like molten gold spilling across marble. Vessaria Nemea stood at the tall, arched window of her chamber, her slender fingers resting lightly against the cool glass as she gazed out across the waking city. The sun’s first light kissed the rooftops and sent flickers dancing through the stained-glass mosaics lining the temple halls, yet the warmth felt distant, as though it belonged to another world. Her reflection stared back at her: pale skin almost luminescent against the dark silk of her ceremonial gown, embroidered with threads of silver and amber that caught the light like fireflies. Her dark hair, usually cascading in waves, was braided tightly now — a symbol of discipline, of control she knew she would soon need more than ever. Her eyes, those rare, gleaming pools of jade flecked with amber, held a storm of thoughts no one could read. In the quiet sanctuary of her chamber, she let the silence settle around her like a shroud. The weight of centuries pressed upon her—the lives of those who had come before her, offered as Bride of the Moon, their fates sealed by blood and prophecy. A bitter legacy she neither wished to inherit nor flee. Outside, the distant tolling of temple bells marked the passage of the hour, a reminder that soon, very soon, she would be leaving the world of sunlit gold for the realm of shadowed stars. Her breath caught, sharp and sudden. A soft knock came at the door. She turned, steadying herself, and called, “Enter.” A slender figure stepped inside—her handmaiden, eyes full of unshed tears. No words were spoken. Vessaria simply nodded once, sharply, as if to say I will endure. I must. The sun climbed higher, the city alive now with pilgrims and priests beginning the day’s rites. Yet Vessaria felt the chill of the coming night already in her bones. She whispered to herself, “For the balance, for the unseen light that guides us all…” And with that, she turned from the window, preparing to step into the unknown. --after her departure--- The carriage rumbled along the winding road carved between sun-kissed hills and dense shadowed woods, a steady rhythm that echoed the steady beating of Vessaria’s heart. The air was cool, tinged with the scent of pine and damp earth — so different from the scent of incense and warm marble that filled her memories. Outside, the fading light of dusk stretched long fingers across the horizon, blurring the boundary between day and night — a threshold she was crossing in more ways than one. Her hands lay folded in her lap, the intricate silver ring of the Moon clasped tightly between her fingers. The emblem of her duty, the mark of her fate. She traced the crescent slowly, feeling the subtle coldness seep into her skin, a reminder that she was no longer just a mortal girl but a chosen bridge between realms. The carriage’s windows blurred with passing shadows. She caught fleeting glimpses of unfamiliar stars beginning to emerge—pale, distant, and cold—but some glimmered faintly with an eerie constancy, as if watching her, waiting. Her thoughts drifted to the stories whispered in the temple halls — of the Night King: his silent gaze, the shifting constellations etched into his skin, the chilling power that bound the Eclipse Court. Was he a tyrant, a god, a prisoner, or something far older? She did not know. But she understood this—she was stepping into a world where memory and shadow wove the very fabric of existence, and where she would be tested beyond anything she had ever imagined. The night deepened, and the carriage rolled steadily onward beneath the vast, indifferent stars. And with every mile, Vessaria’s breath steadied, her resolve hardened. Whatever awaited her in Umbrythar, she would meet it—not as a frightened girl, but as the Bride of the Moon. The carriage came to a slow halt at the edge of Umbrythar, where the faint shimmer of the veil between worlds blurred the air like heat waves on a distant road. Beyond the horizon, the sky had deepened to an impossible midnight blue, scattered with constellations that pulsed and shifted as if alive — some familiar, others utterly alien. A cold breath of night stirred the air, carrying whispers only the heart could hear. Vessaria took a steadying breath, her fingers tightening around the silver crescent pendant resting against her chest. The scent of damp stone and star-etched shadows filled her senses, a stark contrast to the golden warmth of home. The weight of unseen eyes pressed upon her, ancient and relentless. The heavy wooden doors of the palace gates swung open soundlessly, revealing a long colonnade of floating obsidian pillars, threaded with veins of glowing moonstone. Silent figures draped in midnight-blue cloaks flitted like shadows along the path, their presence both ominous and watchful. Her escort, a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in dark leathers trimmed with silver, leaned close, his voice low and steady.“Stay close. The night here listens and remembers.” His eyes, sharp and alert, scanned the shifting darkness. “The Night King’s gaze is everywhere.” Vessaria met his gaze, a flicker of resolve lighting her emerald eyes. “I am no stranger to silence or shadow.” He nodded once, respectful but wary. “Good. The moon does not suffer weakness lightly.” As the carriage rolled forward beneath the arching gates, the cold glow of Umbrythar’s stars seemed to deepen, enveloping them like a cloak. The realm of light had fallen away, and the Bride of the Moon had stepped fully into the night.
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Darkseeker
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The wind that moved through the obsidian towers of Umbrythar was not like the winds of the mortal realm. It carried no warmth, no scent of blooming things or sunlit fields. It was a quiet breath pulled from the bones of the world, running still, cold, and utterly indifferent. Ciaran stood at his window, eyes closed, hands folded behind his back, letting the silence press into him. The air tugged faintly at the strands of silver hair that fell loosely across his brow, but he didn’t shift. His posture remained perfect, still as a statue carved from some forgotten star. In his mind, he saw the carriage. Not through the glass of his high window, but through the weave of shadow, his domain stretched like a living map beneath his awareness. He could feel its slow movement along the final stretch of road that wound through the Umbral Glade, pulled through veils of half-light and starlit fog. The horses' hooves struck the pale stone path with rhythmic certainty, and he saw the glimmer of the silver crescent clasp in the young woman's hands. The new Bride of the Moon. A dull echo stirred in his chest. Not anticipation -- he had not felt that in centuries -- and not dread, just the quiet rustle of inevitability. Behind him, footsteps. Light, practiced, and hesitant. The voice that followed was careful, as though any misstep might crack the very floor beneath their feet. “My king. The Thalorian delegation has passed the watchmen’s gate.” Ciaran did not turn. He gave a slight nod, a single motion that carried the weight of dismissal. The attendant bowed and retreated, vanishing as soundlessly as he had come. He opened his eyes. They gleamed silver, sharp and still, cut from the same cold light that limned the furthest moons. No trace of sentiment touched them. His gaze drifted to the horizon beyond the veil of Umbrythar’s skies, but whatever he searched for there was not meant to be found. He turned from the window and moved without haste toward the waiting attendants. They were silent as they approached, as always well trained, unspoken to, and unseen. Robes of soft woven black were lifted to his shoulders, worked with threads of dark silk that drank in what little light the throne hall possessed. The ceremonial cloak was clasped at his throat: the sovereign's cloak, long ago nicknamed the Moon’s Mourning. It trailed behind him like a tide of darkness, edged with silver thread that shimmered faintly as he traced it with his fingers. He exhaled in resignation. Let it begin again. The halls of Umbrythar were vast and echoless, carved from obsidian and dusk. Pillars stretched like frozen giants overhead, etched with shifting runes only he could read fully. He walked them without hurry, his stride long and measured, the soft drag of his cloak the only sound to mark his passage. As he reached the central chamber, the great doors opened before him on unseen hinges, revealing the Heart of the Eclipse Court. The throne room was a circle of shadow and starlight, ringed by silent statues of past rulers and forgotten gods. At its center, raised upon a series of broad obsidian steps, sat the throne of the Night King -- a seat not of comfort, but of command. It was tall and sharp, carved from the spine of a fallen celestial beast, gleaming faintly with violet veins. Ciaran ascended to it and sat with the same expression he had worn since time first knelt before him -- neutral, implacable, untouched. A figure stepped forward near the edge of the chamber. A servant, cloaked in midnight blue, bowed deeply and lifted his voice: “Her Highness, Princess Vessaria Nemea of Thaloria, Chosen Bride of the Moon, enters the Eclipse Court.” The doors opened wide. Ciaran did not immediately move. He sat as he had a hundred times before with his shoulders straight, expression empty, and his hands resting on the arms of the throne like a sculpture carved in perfect likeness. His eyes fixed on the young woman as she entered, their silver light impassive. She moved with grace, that much he noted. Strength, perhaps. Defiance. But he had seen it all before. How many had there been now? Fifty? Five hundred? He did not know. He had stopped counting after the first few centuries. The ceremony was always the same -- the vows, followed by blood. The hope etched on faces that would not last. Another sigh passed through him -- quiet, unnoticed, absorbed into the shadow. He stood and his hands returned behind his back, a practiced posture, timeless in its restraint. He moved with fluid precision down the black steps, every footfall as measured as a blade being drawn. The king came to a halt before her, looking down with an expression of perfect neutrality. Not cruel. Not welcoming. Just cold. His voice, when it came, was rich and low but devoid of warmth, like the echo of wind in a tomb. “Vessaria Nemea of Thaloria,” he said. “You stand now before the Eclipse Court. The stars have marked your path, and the moon has chosen.” His gaze did not waver. The words were old, worn smooth by repetition. “You are welcome in Umbrythar, Bride of the Moon.” His eyes studied her a moment longer -- not truly seeing her, not yet -- but searching for signs. Signs of what, even he did not know. He only knew that the game had begun once more, and he was tired of playing it.
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Neutral
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She had not imagined it would feel like this. The moment the gates of Umbrythar yawned open—massive and soundless, carved with strange runes that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat—Vessaria understood that nothing she had known before would follow her into this place. No color. No heat. Not even the scent of the world she had left behind. Umbrythar greeted her with silence and shadow, and something deeper than both. Not death, but the thing that came before it. The hush that fell across the land before a storm broke. The breath before a blade struck home. Vessaria’s spine straightened beneath the weight of it. She refused to flinch. She stepped into the Eclipse Court with her chin high, green-gold eyes forward, her palms open at her sides in the ceremonial gesture of offering. A white cloak with a silver-edged hood hung from her shoulders—symbol of her people, and a shroud of sorts. It caught no breeze. Nothing in this place stirred. Behind her, her Thalorian escort remained at the threshold, as instructed. Her guard, Ser Calian, had argued to come farther, but she had refused. They had exchanged only a glance before the doors closed on him. She bore this alone. As it was meant to be. The throne room was vast and circular, unlike the grand rectangular halls of Thaloria, and darker than anything she’d ever stood inside. Great statues loomed above her like gods long buried and still watching. The floor beneath her boots was glassy-black, etched with constellations not found in any Thalorian sky. She knew better than to look up. The ceiling shimmered faintly with starlight that moved when her eyes weren’t fixed on it. Like something was watching back. Her hands were trembling—barely, but they were—and she folded them before her, pressing her fingers into her palm. Her mother had always said: If you must tremble, let it be from fire, not fear. So she made herself burn, deep in the quiet chambers of her chest. And then… he stood. The Night King. Ciaran. Vessaria’s breath stopped, caught on the edge of her ribs. He was tall, yes, but not in the awkward way men often became with height. He was built like a song she didn’t know the words to—measured, restrained, and terrible in his stillness. His silver eyes gleamed with nothing behind them, yet still they pierced. Like they had seen her whole before she even entered the room. The cloak he wore was so black it swallowed the faint starlight. The silver thread shimmered like ghostlight at the edge of death. He descended the steps like time itself had shaped his movements. Without flourish. Without hesitation. Without mercy. And then he was in front of her. Cold. Remote. Beautiful in the way that only cruel things could be. “Vessaria Nemea of Thaloria,” he said, voice low and deep, forged in the bones of night. “You stand now before the Eclipse Court. The stars have marked your path, and the moon has chosen.” She knew the words were ceremonial. She knew he had likely said them a hundred times before. But still, something in them rang—final. Like a tolling bell heard through a dream. “You are welcome in Umbrythar, Bride of the Moon.” She let the silence sit between them, as thick and ancient as the shadows in the corners of the room. And then—she dropped into a bow. Slow. Deliberate. Deep, but not submissive. When she straightened, her gaze met his. Not defiant. Not meek. Steady. “As the moon has chosen,” she said, her voice clear, low, and resonant, “so I have answered.” She lifted her right hand, revealing the crescent-moon clasp nestled in her palm—the sacred token given to every Bride at her selection. Unlike those before her, the metal was warm to her skin. It never dimmed in her grip. She wasn’t sure why. She stepped forward and laid it gently at his feet.Then she raised her chin and spoke again, her Thalorian accent softening the edges of the old rite. “I come to Umbrythar not as offering, nor as sacrifice. I come to serve in the bond between realms. To honor the accord written in the stars. And to stand beside the Night King until the vows are fulfilled.” There was no quiver in her voice. But her heart—her heart beat like a war drum inside her chest. She did not add what else she came for. That knowledge was hers alone. The things whispered by the Moon Oracle. The dreams that had not left her. The ache she could not name. The Night King had not spoken again. Not yet. But his gaze was unrelenting, like the stillness of the sea before it claimed the shore. She had read the legends. She had heard the tales. That the Brides who came here were treated with solemnity, housed in towers made of glass and night, taught the old rites, and prepared for their purpose—whatever that purpose was. Some were never seen again. Some sent letters that made no sense. Some tried to flee, and disappeared into mist. But none of that mattered now. Because Vessaria had come to the end of one world and stepped into another—and she would not kneel. Because whatever this kingdom was, whatever ancient dance she had been pulled into—she would not be the forgotten girl in the corner of history. She would not be swallowed.
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Darkseeker
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The crescent moon amulet glinted faintly in the shadow between them, its silver surface warmed unnaturally by her touch. Ciaran’s eyes, bright and cold, passed over it with a flicker of something close to interest -- not quite curiosity, and certainly not approval, just... notation. His gaze lingered for the barest breath before lifting again to her face. The corner of his mouth shifted almost imperceptibly. “Upgraded the clasp to be a space heater, have they?” His voice, bone-dry and toneless, echoed in the vast chamber, swallowed quickly by the darkness like all things in this place. There was no humor in the words, no shift in his expression to mark it as a jest. It was a detached observation, as if he were noting the change in a forge’s temperature or the design of an unfamiliar relic in a museum he didn’t care to visit. He did not expect a reply, nor did he wait for one. The comment drifted and dissolved, unimportant. He studied her a moment longer. Her stance was not cowering. That, too, was noted. There was a firm resolve in her spine. The rhythm of her breath was fast but controlled. The bow had been deep, not obsequious, but formal, measured, and deliberate. There was a sense of ceremony about her, but also something beneath it... iron tucked into silk. She was not the trembling thing he had seen in ages past, the wide-eyed girls who came cloaked in prophecy and promptly withered under the weight of it. No. This one was made of sterner stuff. It was refreshing and exhausting all at once. He turned away without remark, ascending the obsidian steps without sound, the train of his black cloak trailing behind him like a slice of void torn through the chamber. As he moved, the light -- what little there was -- seemed to hesitate, stalling at the edge of the fabric as though unwilling to be swallowed. Ciaran sat, resuming his previous position on the throne with the ease of inevitability. He did not lounge, nor did he posture. He simply existed there, seated as though he were an extension of the throne, of the room, of the realm. The eyes that had once seen stars born and buried flicked to the side with the smallest gesture, and an attendant, one of many who moved like wraiths through the palace, approached without a word. “You will be shown to your quarters,” Ciaran said, addressing Vessaria without looking directly at her now. His tone had not shifted; it remained as cool and precise as a blade’s edge, dispassionate and indifferent. "Any questions you have will be answered by Elandrin." From the shadows beside the chamber’s entrance, a woman emerged, her sunset-colored skin warm against the cold of Umbrythar, her purple eyes lowered respectfully. Her gown of midnight and amber swirled around her like mist as she moved, and she bowed deeply before the princess, her gesture fluid and without fear. “We have placed lights inside,” Ciaran continued, now watching again. “If you want them. “And you need not worry,” he added, in that same flat, wry tone, “about me appearing unannounced in your chambers. I’m aware that is a popular myth among your kind. We may be night creatures, but we still have senses of decorum.” There was no amusement in his voice. Only weariness, and perhaps the slightest hint of irritability at the wild imaginations of the humans. He raised a hand in final dismissal, the motion graceful and slow, and the attendant stepped forward, her gaze steady now as she offered a guiding hand toward the inner corridors. Ciaran watched Vessaria for a few seconds more, saying nothing. It was not the look of a man assessing value or weighing threat; it was colder than that. A scholar staring at a riddle he’d solved too many times before. A ruler surveying a ritual whose purpose had long since unraveled. He did not speak again. Instead, he let the silence reclaim the room. When the great doors slid closed behind her, Ciaran finally exhaled, long and quiet. Another century. Another bride. His hand drifted idly over the silver edge of his cloak, tracing the thread with the mindless precision of habit. The fabric was cold beneath his fingers, like everything in this place. He leaned back slightly in the throne, tilting his head to the ceiling. The starlight above pulsed faintly, rearranging itself. He did not watch it. Instead, his mind stretched outward through corridors, into the bones of the castle, across the veil of his realm. He felt her presence echo faintly against the wards and walls. Different than the others, perhaps. More rooted. More fire. But they always seemed different to him at first. His fingers curled slowly into the cloak. Then again... some flames burn longer, and some burn through. Still, he would not entertain the thought. Not now. Not again. He closed his eyes. The shadows deepened around him like a sigh.
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Neutral
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Vessaria followed the silent figure of Elandrin through the vast corridor, her soft-heeled boots striking quiet against the dark stone floor. The echo of the Night King’s voice still lingered behind her, not in her ears, but in her bones—detached, dismissive, yet somehow far more unsettling than open cruelty would have been. She hadn’t expected warmth. But she also hadn’t expected such apathy. Her fingers curled briefly as she walked, then relaxed. Good, she thought. Let him believe he’s seen everything there is to see. Let him stop looking. The corridors twisted like veins, each turn carved from seamless black stone veined with dull starlight. The air was cool and still, dry in a way that made her wonder whether this place breathed at all. Every now and then, flickering orbs of violet light hovered near the ceiling like moons caught mid-fade, offering just enough illumination to reveal the high archways, etched columns, and whispering tapestries that lined the walls. Elandrin said nothing as they walked, but her presence was not cold. There was a serenity in her movements, a kind of practiced grace that made Vessaria suspect she had once held a very different station than that of a guide. She wondered briefly what she had been before Umbrythar. At last, the corridor narrowed and opened again—this time into a space that stole Vessaria’s breath for the first time since crossing the border into shadow. Her rooms were not a prison. They were, in fact, stunning. The suite was carved directly into the side of the palace, half-wrapped in crystal-paneled glass that overlooked a forest of silver trees twisted up from the mountain below. The glass itself wasn’t normal—moonlight passed through it, even though there was no moon in Umbrythar’s sky. It filtered the darkness into pale blue hues, casting soft glows across the walls and floor, like reflections in deep water. The room was not bright, but it was luminous. Quietly, hauntingly so. A large bed rested at the far end, low to the ground, covered in layers of deep blue and gray silk. The sheets looked spun from shadow; the pillows, stuffed with something lighter than air. The bedframe was formed from a white wood that shimmered faintly—ghostbark, she guessed from Thalorian myth. Supposedly extinct. To one side, a sitting area was arranged around a softly flickering hearth—not fire, precisely, but a glowing mineral cluster that radiated warmth without smoke. Three chairs and a chaise had been arranged with impeccable symmetry, upholstered in dark velvet with veins of color that shimmered like oil beneath light. The design was minimal but elegant, every angle of the room seemingly planned not for comfort, but ritual. To the other side, a small bathing chamber stood behind a screen of star-patterned glass, the floor inlaid with crescent-shaped stones that glowed underfoot. Pools of water—some warm, some cool—bubbled faintly in silence, fed by unseen veins in the wall. A small alcove held a writing desk, a glass bottle of ink, and quills made from metallic black feathers. An armoire stood opposite, taller than she was, already stocked with gowns and robes in midnight hues—none of them Thalorian. The fabrics were unlike anything she had worn: layered silks that changed color as she moved, materials that shimmered between presence and absence. The entire suite felt suspended in another world, even deeper than Umbrythar itself. Elandrin stepped to the center of the room, bowing slightly, her voice soft. “You will be undisturbed here unless you request otherwise. If you wish for light, speak to the stones in your walls. If you wish for warmth, lay your palm on the hearth. The palace listens, in its way.” Vessaria raised a brow, brushing her fingers along the nearest stone wall. It was cool to the touch, but something pulsed beneath her skin, as if the room had noted her presence—catalogued her like a new artifact. “There are no locks,” Elandrin added, as though anticipating the question. “Not because you are a prisoner. But because locks do not work in this place. If you wish for privacy, the room will honor it. But nothing here is kept with bolts or bars.” “I see,” Vessaria said softly, stepping to the window. She could not see the sky, not really—only the shimmer of stars reflected through thick mist. “And the view?” Elandrin tilted her head. “The window shows you what you most need to see. What that is, only the window knows.” The thought unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She could not tell whether she was looking at a real forest—or a memory shaped by the palace’s will. Vessaria turned back, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “Has anyone ever tried to leave?” Elandrin hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Some. In earlier centuries. The path always returns them. In truth, they are free to go. But few make it far. Umbrythar is not cruel. It is simply itself. Most who leave… find they no longer belong to the places they came from.” “And those who stayed?” “Adapted. Some became scholars. Others lost themselves. A few…” Her eyes flicked to Vessaria’s face, unreadable. “…changed the court forever.” That made her pause. Vessaria looked around the suite once more. She could feel it—like something alive was buried beneath the walls, quiet and waiting. Not sinister. Just ancient. Not watching. Just aware. Elandrin offered a final bow. “You are free to rest. Or to wander, if you are brave. But do not stray into the Tower of Veils, nor the southern wing where the bells do not ring. If you hear music where there should be none, return here. Immediately.” That, more than anything else, told her just how dangerous this realm could be. Vessaria inclined her head. “Thank you.” As Elandrin disappeared through the archway, Vessaria crossed the room slowly, her eyes sweeping over every detail again. When she came to the window, she pressed her hand to the glass. The trees below moved, though there was no wind. And for the first time since arriving, she let her breath tremble just once—then let it go. The room dimmed slightly, responding. “I am not afraid of you,” she whispered to the dark. “Not yet.” The glass flickered. And the shadows, quiet and patient, did not answer.
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