#LSRPG

[dissensionads]

𝑺𝒆𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒃𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆.

Welcome  to  Volner-Downe  Inc.,  where  progress  is  not  just  measured—it  is  curated.  You’re  about  to  embark  on  a  journey  toward  personal-professional  harmony,  powered  by  our  proudest  innovation:  the  Dissension  Procedure™.  This  patented,  board-approved  neurological  separation  offers  participants  the  ultimate  gift—a  life  unburdened  by  labor  or  personal  pains  better  left  at  home.  Imagine  waking  up  refreshed,  unaware  that  another  version  of  you  has  been  contributing  tirelessly  to  society’s  advancement.  No  stress.  No  guilt.  No  pesky  memories  of  filing  reports  or  sitting  through  time-inefficient  meetings.  Just  you,  at  your  best—half  the  time,  all  the  reward. We  understand  that  new  developments  can  raise  questions,  even  mild  emotional  fluctuations  ( don’t  worry—we’ve  accounted  for  those ).  Please  know  that  all  Dissension  participants  enjoy  top-tier  medical  observation,  plush  ergonomic  seating,  and  curated  social  interactions  designed  to  maintain  morale  at  industry-leading  levels.  Should  any  adjustment  period  occur—say,  a  brief  disorientation,  the  occasional  mirror  hallucination,  or  a  strong  emotional  response  to  sunshine—our  Cognitive  Reintegration  Specialists  are  fully  equipped  to  assist.  Such  incidents,  of  course,  are  exceedingly  rare,  and  often  resolved  with  herbal  tea,  light  recalibration,  or  a  brief  nap  in  our  Reflection  Pods.  We  take  pride  in  rewarding  exceptional  behavior,  whether  that’s  through  commemorative  pins,  snack  vouchers,  or  a  featured  spot  in  our  quarterly  Employee  Luminary  Ledger. We  at  Volner-Downe  believe  that  one  day,  humanity  will  see  the  Dissension  Procedure  not  just  as  a  milestone,  but  as  a  moral  obligation.  Why  suffer  from  the  weight  of  dual  responsibility  when  we  can  tidy  it  up  for  you?  The  self  is  a  luxury  that  was  never  meant  to  multitask.  So  relax.  Unclench.  Your  Outie  is  safe,  your  Innie  is  productive,  and  your  endowment  to  our  future  is  already  happening; so  we  thank  you  for  your  contribution—however  subconsciously  rendered.  Welcome  to  Volner-Downe  Inc.™:  Your  life,  organized. Please  note:  Volner-Downe  Inc.  is  not  liable  for  any  deaths,  surgical  irregularities,  loss  of  cognitive  integrity,  spontaneous  emotional  eruptions,  or  permanent  dissociative  consequences  resulting  from  participation  in  the  Dissension  Procedure™  or  any  adjacent  sub-protocols.  By  proceeding,  you  accept  all  terms  as  lovingly  implied.  Thank  you  for  your  service—even  if  you  don’t  remember  giving  it.

𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒊𝒕𝒚. 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒚.

THE  HOUSE  OF  DISSENSION  is  a 21+  original,  psychological  horror, drama, and political  roleplay  set  in  a  retrofuturist  2028,  where  identity  has  become  a  product,  obedience  a  prescription,  and  silence  the  only  permitted  rebellion.  Inspired  by  Severance,  Succession,  The  Sims,  and  Control,  it  explores  corporate  surveillance,  manufactured  realities,  and  the  ghost-like  aftermath  of  partitioned  lives.  The  aesthetic  is  mid-century  modern  gone  sterile:  sleek  chrome,  synthetic  smiles,  and  cocktail  parties  hosted  beneath  the  glare  of  hidden  cameras.  Centered  around  profound  character  evolution,  embracing  dark  narratives,  intricate  personal  journeys,  immersive  world-building,  and  transformative  plot  developments  designed  to  challenge  your  character  and  reshape  the  very  fabric  of  their  reality. This  world  is  curated  to  the  point  of  collapse,  built  on  a  foundation  of  inherited  power,  manipulated  memory,  and  the  slow,  aching  horror  of  being  erased  while  alive.  More  information  will  be  declassified  on  May  18th.  Until  then—remember  your  place,  repeat  your  mantras,  and  above  all  else:  we’re  happy  to  be  here.

𝗟𝗜𝗞𝗘, 𝗙𝗢𝗟𝗟𝗢𝗪 𝗢𝗥 𝗥𝗘𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗚 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗘𝗫𝗖𝗟𝗨𝗦𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗔𝗖𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦 𝗧𝗢 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗙𝗨𝗟𝗟 𝗣𝗟𝗢𝗧 & 𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗦𝗧 𝗗𝗜𝗕𝗦 𝗢𝗡 𝗥𝗢𝗟𝗘𝗦 !

[trialofheartsrpg]

DEAR [ YOU ], WE ADMIRE YOU.

« WE HAVE BEEN WATCHING YOU. Measuring you, dissecting you in the quiet autopsy of ambition, in the sacred calculus of hunger and ruin. And yet, you persist. Exquisite thing, self-fashioned from sinew and silver-tongued lies, you understand, don’t you?—That this world does not belong to those who ask politely. It belongs to those who take, to those who carve their names into history with a steady hand and an unflinching gaze.

The Trial of Hearts calls for you.

Lucky thirteen names. Lucky you.

And now, you must decide. Do you step forward? Or do you wait, breathless, as the noose tightens around the throat of hesitation?

The board is set, eager to welcome you.

Be beautiful. Be brilliant. Be courageous.

Most ardently, we await you. »

══════════════════

At a Swiss prestigious BLUE IVY UNIVERSITY, where ambition calcifies into power, thirteen alumni are handpicked by a Secret Society each year to partake in the Trial of Hearts — a grande spectacle of a game of persuasion, betrayal, and an unforgettable high. The greatest honor, the sweetest absolution and fulfillment of desire, and the cruelest sentence. Lose and you're exposed, exiled, ruined beyond repair. It is told the thirteen receive six months to sharpen their knives until the game begins. This year's batch, however, bears different teeth. The alumnus whom everyone thought would win —the golden prodigy, the untouchable destiny— is found dead on a Sunday on chapel stone, throat opened like a second mouth, body arranged in perfect repose. A renaissance painting rendered in flesh and finale. No note. Only elegant violence, a statement written in absence, a rupture in the grand design. Now twelve remain, and the music has already changed its tune, for no one here is innocent.

THE MESSAGE IS CLEAR: SOMEONE HAS ALREADY PLAYED THEIR HAND.

THE TRIAL OF HEARTS is an original 21+ game-theory skeleton-based rp, featuring twelve of the university’s most brilliant and ambitious that are taking part in a Secret Society game. Inspired by The Secret History , The Atlas Six and Gossip Girl, the game’s limited run will unravel the obsessions, betrayals, and secrets of its players, and beg the question: Who will win this year's game?

✦  ENTER. ✦  ACCEPTING SUBMISSIONS UNTIL NIGHT OF 30. MARCH (PLEASE USE MOBILE SUBMIT)

[exodusrpg]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐒 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐖𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐔𝐑𝐄

In the 25th century, Earth is a distant memory, a lost relic of the past. Humanity has mastered the art of space exploration, weaving through galaxies with the grace of seasoned travelers. Among these cosmic voyagers is the ship Apeiron, a vessel carrying the last precious plant specimens from Earth, a fragile hope for cultivating new life on untamed worlds. When an urgent distress signal echoes through the void, a special force is assembled, driven by a mission of profound importance: to retrieve Apeiron and its invaluable cargo, a beacon of life for a new homeland. Yet, beneath the surface of duty lies an amalgamation of personal stakes and hidden motives. Each member of the rescue crew is drawn by more than the promise of salvation. They seek answers, redemption, and the unraveling of mysteries shrouded in the silence of the drifting spaceship. In the vast expanse of space, where stars whisper secrets and shadows hold the past, their journey intertwines destiny with the echoes of lost worlds. EXODUS is a 21+ literate sci fi roleplay inspired by the three body problem, interstellar, 1899 and love death and robots. Join a small crew of 13 people aboard the Exodus to uncover the mysteries left behind on the Apeiron. This game will include interactive mechanics and be played on discord.

[ ∅ REBLOG FOR EARLY GAME DOC ACCESS ∅]

[houseofdissension]

⸻ 𐄁 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐒 [ 𝑉𝐻-𝟶𝟶𝟷–𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄-𝐈𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ]

This log was diverted from Vincent Harrow's Personnel Registry and secured under what is now known as Operation Echoroot. Access is granted solely to embedded Resistance assets with proven allegiance.

Vincent Cael Harrow—once the Lead Dissension Surgeon—has endured what should have ended him. Hunted, hollowed, and left for dead, he did not vanish. He recorded. Every fracture. Every failure. Every second he stayed breathing. Across years of ruin, he documented his descent—not to be remembered, but to understand what remained.

Now, beneath the bones of Desmond Den, he operates a surgical bunker stitched from ash and vengeance. Six experimental Reversal Procedures. Two survivors. Four bodies buried by his own hand. His mission is unflinching: to unmake the Procedure from within, to restore what was stolen, and to face the cost of remembering.

His cause grows under his leadership—quiet, loyal, dangerous. He no longer fears sacrifice. He has become it. And the repurposed machines that hum in the dark? They don't just reverse the Procedure. They prepare the reckoning.

[  𝗩𝗜𝗡𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗧 𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗪 / 𝗥𝗘𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗨𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗦𝗨𝗥𝗩𝗜𝗩𝗔𝗟 𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗦 / 𝗬𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗗𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗖𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡  ]

╰──   AARON PIERRE,  36,  CIS-MALE,  HE + HIM  ]  ＞  𝙾𝙱𝚂𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙴𝙳  𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙴𝚃  𝙻𝙾𝙶:  The  individual  known  informally  as  [  VINCENT CAEL HARROW  ]  has  been  noted  for  presence  within  the  Downe’s  Hollow  parameters.  According  to  behavioral  estimates,  they  present  at  approximately  [  THIRTY-SIX  ]  and  have  been  under  evaluation  for  [  FIFTEEN YEARS  ].  During  scheduled  daylight  hours,  they  are  recorded  operating  in  the  role  of  [  REVERSAL DISSENSION SURGEON  /  NON DISSENTED  ].  Community  observation  reports  suggest  notable  behavioral  markers:  prone  to  [  OBSESSIVE  ]  under  stress,  yet  reportedly  [  METICULOUS  ]  in  collective  settings.  Volner-issued  residency  placement:  [  DESMOND DEN / HIDDEN UNDERGROUND BUNKER  ].  Echo  archetypes  detected  in  personality  patterns  include:  [  Blood on steel. Eyes like surveillance: tired, unblinking, sharp. He walks through shadow with a prosthetic hiss and a surgeon’s grace. Savior, saboteur, ghost in the bunker light.  ].  𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂:  under  continued  observation.  Decompression  tolerance  uncertain.  Reintegration  probability:  TBD.  

𝗜𝗡𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗔𝗟 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘 𝗘𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗨𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡.

⸻ 𐄁 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙴𝙲𝙷𝙾𝚁𝙾𝙾𝚃 / 𝙵𝙸𝙴𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙼 𝟺𝟾-SECURE ARCHIVE / V. HARROW – CONTINUITY LOG This began as a whisper in a motel room. Now it's a war cry stitched in bone. We don’t ask for confessions. We ask what you’re willing to lose. Be precise. Be honest. If you remember who you are—prove it.

1.  Please  describe  the  circumstances  of  your  initial  transition  into  Downe’s  Hollow.

VIDEO LOG: VIN_C.HARROW / ENTRY 0001 / DATE: 11/11/2021 "Log one. This is the first tape since I lost everything." already there is a grief in the way he sits—shoulders sunk, spine, unspooled slightly from precision. he used to be straighter. now even his silhouette is full of sorrow. his prosthetic leg hums against the hollow floorboards with a sound that is almost shy. a ghost asking permission. outside, the storm doesn’t scream. it seeps, like rot does, like truth. he doesn't look into the lens again. not yet. instead, he studies the corner of the table like something might bloom there: something small, maybe forgiveness. "I used to log everything. Back then it was academic—case studies, procedure failures, neural graft responses... but this… this isn’t for the files. I’m answering the same questions Volner-Downe made me record fifteen years ago—back when they still pretended to care what I felt because I need to see it for myself now. Frame by frame. I need to watch what’s left of me on camera. I need to know exactly when the surgeon became the wreck." the motel walls exhale with mildew. behind him, a television flickers static on mute; a nothing-channel for a man who no longer needs stories because the worst one already happened. "They gave me purpose after my injury. I was twenty, lost my leg saving a kid who didn’t make it on tour, thought that was it for me. Then Volner-Downe stepped in, paid for my education, handed me mentors, a prosthetic that moved like memory. They revived me, sponsored my education. I owed them everything. I was so thankful and loyal to their cause because of it. Learned, then performed the procedure thousands of times over five years. Clean, perfect—until Marion Saint. I took care of her like every other patient, and what I saw—what I’d done—" his voice gives a little, as if it had taken place again right there and then. "I’ll never forget  it. I quit the next day, ignored the warnings and walked out anyway. After that, there wasn’t a transition. That implies choice. This was a fall." he speaks like each word has teeth, but no appetite. like the words themselves are trying not to scream. "They died on a Wednesday. I left on a Thursday." and that’s the closest he comes to breaking. not in the voice, not in the line but in the shift of his hand—one finger dragging, slowly, across the grain of the table. like he could rewind it. like if he touched it softly enough, time would forgive him. "I—I just packed one bag and everything else stayed behind. The fire was called an ‘incident,’ but it was retribution. Calculated and clean. The kind of tragedy you file  under insurance claim." his laugh isn’t a laugh, it’s the inhale before intense pain. strong fingers press into the tabletop of the nearly dilapidated motel like he's trying to anchor himself inside the moment—but even now, he drifts. "I ended up here somehow," &* he does not flinch when the wind outside throws something against the window. he’s already used to the sound of collapse. he’s speaking in present tense now—the way some people sleepwalk. not because they want to, but because memory insists on walking them back through every room. "I don’t know why the fuck I’m still here. Some days it feels like breathing is just inertia, like my body didn’t get the message they’re gone. I’m not living. I’m just… fucking existing." the final pause is a full breath, not relief but something that pretends to be. and when he does finally look up, the camera doesn’t just see him—it sees  through him. the places grief hollowed out, the places love used to live. "Only six days have passed and I'm bleeding here. Every step forward is a cut. I thought about joining them. Then I thought, maybe, if I walk far enough, I swear I’ll find the artery and when I do—Volner-Downe will bleed, too. Anything to put their souls at rest, then maybe I can finally be with my family again."

2.  At  the  time  of  your  arrival,  what  were  you  running  from,  or  toward?

VIDEO LOG: VIN_C.HARROW / ENTRY 0002 / DATE:  6/13/2022  "Log two. It’s been about seven months and somehow I'm still alive." his voice lands soft but steady, like it’s spent months folding itself back into a body that no longer fits right. like he had to learn how to speak again without breaking. before all this, there was nothing to hide from: just memory, loss, smoke that wouldn’t clear. &* now, by some miracle, there’s progress. now there’s hope he doesn’t trust, now there are files that matter, faces that might still be saved and that kind of weight has teeth. "So… what have I been running from since?" he doesn’t blink when he says it. just keeps staring like he’s looking into something farther than the lens. "I was running from the silence. From that fucking silence after I lost everything. Running from the smell of our house burning down like a body. From the shit I let Volner do with my hands, but I was also chasing something I couldn’t name yet. The weak spot. The place where the system buckles under its own delusion. I knew if I kept listening, eventually it’d come to me." his fingers brush a surgical cable coiled on the desk, thumb resting against copper like it might warm. behind him, the lab rig hums: alive, waiting. "I don’t know if it will be enough. I still don’t, but I’m here and I’m close. I’m not running anymore."

3.  Do  you  believe  you  chose  this  life,  or  were  chosen  for  it?

VIDEO LOG – VIN_C.HARROW / ENTRY 0193 / DATE: 10/11/2022 "Log one-nine-three. Four months since the last. I’m still in the underground bunker, safe, things are coming along nicely. The system’s holding. The rig’s holding. I’m almost ready. I’m not sleeping but it’s coming together. " the question lingers like smoke. he doesn’t speak it aloud. doesn’t need to. the words are already inside him. he’s been thinking about it for days, ever since the figure in black showed up—silent, unarmed, threaded with presence. they didn’t come like a threat. they came like permission. he hasn’t asked their name. not yet. maybe he’s afraid he’ll know it. maybe it’s better if he doesn’t. "Did I choose this? No. I chose out. I chose to stop cutting people open so a corporation could bury their pain deeper and call it mercy. I chose to leave. I chose to grieve, but that choice cost me every name I ever prayed for and after that—I don’t think anything I’ve done was really mine. Anguish makes architects out of people. Makes blueprints out of blood." there are six monitors to his left, all running simulations. the latest reversal prototype stabilizes at 68%. better than last week. not good enough. not yet. the figure visits sometimes. leaves no name, no trail. but each time they speak, they speak in we. he doesn’t know who we is. but part of him wants to believe in it. "I think the moment I saw Marion Saint dying on my table—I stopped being a man. I became a response. A scar reacting to pressure. This isn't the way I thought it would be, but I'm choosing to go forward with the offer."

4.  When  you  envision  the  person  you  used  to  be,  what  part  of  them  still  lingers  in  the  current  design?

VIDEO LOG – VIN_C.HARROW / ENTRY 0271 / DATE: 06/11/2023 "Log two-seven-one. One year, six months since I vanished. Eight months since I stopped being alone." the question comes soft. but it bites. he lets the silence stretch for five seconds, maybe more, like he’s waiting to be interrupted by the man he used to be. no voice answers. "I used to be methodical. Precise. People said it like it was a compliment. Like I was a surgeon made of focus. Truth is, I was scared of fucking it up, of failing someone again. So I over-corrected. I clung to order like it could resurrect the dead and I guess… that part’s still here. The part that counts backward from five before touching anything, that memorizes every set of eyes in a room before speaking, or that rechecks every equation even when I know it’s right. What lingers is the part that wants to control what’s already gone." he looks past the camera now, toward the second cot. toward the three dossiers pinned like nervous systems to the wall: a field engineer, a codebreaker, and a former innie. each one found him because someone whispered his code. each one stayed because he didn’t lie about the cost. "But that’s not all. There’s still a part of me—small, buried—that wanted to fix people because I believed they were worth fixing. Not just systems, or minds. People. And I don’t know what that makes me now. Maybe naïve or dangerous. I don’t trust it but it’s still there. Still looking for something to stitch together. Even if it’s only what's left of me. Even if it's just in their memory."

5.  In  your  current  state  of  clarity,  how  would  you  describe  your  belief  in  the  Dissension  Procedure?

FINAL VIDEO LOG – VIN_C.HARROW / ENTRY 0394 / DATE: 06/11/2025 "Log three-nine-four. Been a long time. Too long. No apologies. Been busy making gods bleed." he doesn’t look worn out anymore. not like before. exhaustion’s turned into structure. he’s efficient now. focused. grief turned artifact. sharpened. the reversal has been performed six times. four bodies buried in silence. two still with him—broken, trembling, beautiful in their fight to stay real. he spends hours guiding them through the blur, stitching memories back together like shattered teeth. "Belief isn’t the right word for me anymore. It gives the Procedure too much grace, too much myth. The Dissension Procedure isn’t an ideology. It’s an engine; a weaponized lobotomy that pretends to be salvation. What it does to the brain—what it does to self—it doesn’t erase pain. It multiplies it, turns people into storage units for suffering they’re not allowed to understand." a screen flickers behind him—one of the survivors moaning softly through overlapping speech. they call him multiple things. they see multiple rooms. they cry for a mother who never existed. he watches it all. not detached. disciplined. "I don’t believe in the Procedure. I study it. I map it. I dismantle it inch by inch, like a tumor with a thousand roots. They called it progress. They sold it as mercy. What it is—what it’s always been—is rupture. Artificial amputation of consciousness and i’m here to undo it. No matter how many times it kills the people I’m trying to save and the ones who are trying to help me save them, including my own. This suffering will end."

⸻ 𐄁 𝚂𝚄𝙱𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙸𝙽𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙵𝙸𝙴𝙻𝙳 𝙻𝙾𝙶 / 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚆–𝙸𝙽𝙵𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙿𝙾𝙸𝙽𝚃

You were not born to be partitioned. You were not made to forget your name.

This world—this corporate monument to obedience—tried to carve you clean, to strip you of memory, choice, pain. But pain is not failure. Memory is not flaw. What they fear in you is the very thing that survives.

I do not lead for glory. I lead because no one else would cut the artery. I will tear down every floor, every protocol, every lie stitched into your skull. Not for vengeance. For reclamation.

You are not broken. You were broken open. And now, you are a signal.

Meet me where the silence cracks. 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝙴𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚝 will now commence. We are the cure they never meant to create. We are the Reversal.

[greenhike]

i have gone ahead and scrounged together a full most wanted list ! you can find it under the cut, split up by gender and age ( the cut-off between older and younger is 35ish ) .

mwf ( younger )

alisha boe, hunter schafer, daisy edgar jones, fivel stewart, ayo edebiri, ella purnell, madison bailey, courtney eaton, halston sage, chase sui wonders, devery jacobs, madelyn cline, havana rose liu, maia reficco, naomi scott, ashley moore, savannah lee smith, amber midthunder, nhung hong, margaret qualley, yaya urassaya sperbund, mia goth, taylor russell, sophie thatcher, rachel sennott, jenna ortega, becky armstrong, jung hoyeon, aurora perrineau, mimi keene, victoria pedretti, ruby cruz, willa fitzgerald, grace van patten, aslihan malbora, brianne tju, rebecca ablack, rachel zegler, davika hoorne, simone ashley, alexandra shipp, adria arjona, barbie ferreira, molly gordon, choi heejin, bruna marquenzine, camila mendes, madelaine petsch, olivia cooke, tahirah sharif, florence pugh, nicole wallace, isabela merced, bae ganghee, lukita maxwell, rabia soyturk, pat chayanit, camila morrone, zion moreno, maika monroe, auli'i cravahlo

mwm ( younger )

charles melton, taylor zakhar perez, jacob elordi, kieth powers, thomas weatherall, louis partridge, danny ramirez, josh hueston, kim jiwoong, logan lerman, tom blythe, apo nattawin, lakeith stanfield, nicholas alexander chavez, aaron pierre, emilio sakraya, cooper koch, mason gooding, song kang, nico hiraga, drew starkey, lorenzo zurzolo, archie renaux, nick robinson, nam joohyuk, dominic fike, callum turner, rudy pankow, jonathan daviss, john boyega, michael cimino, chase stokes, paul mescal, woo dohwan, tommy martinez, joe keery, corteon moore, d'pharaoh woon-a-ta, charlie gillespie, ncuti gatwa, luka sabbat, damson idris, justice smith

mwnb ( younger )

lizeth selene, emma d'arcy, liv hewson, amandla steinberg, brigette lundy-paine, avan jogia, quintessa swindell

mwf ( older )

sandra oh, dewanda wise, zoe kravitz, kate siegel, pooja hedge, aubrey plaza, ana de armas, kathryn hahn, lupita nyong'o, nicola coughlin, laura harrier, melissa barrera, rachel weisz, monica bellucci, simone kessell, vera farmiga, jessica alba, natalie portman, salma hayek, rachel mcadams, cynthia erivo, kerry washington, imogen poots, carla gugino, rose byrn, jamie chung, anne hathaway, yoghurt nattasha, phoebe tonkin, karrueche tran, lily gladstone, nicole kidman, monica raymund, angela bassett, roberta colindrez, patti harrison, keri russell, rachel bilson, lee yu-bi, sofia vergara

mwm ( older )

kiowa gordon, sebastian stan, manny jacinto, theo james, dev patel, alfred enoch, oliver jackson cohen, carlos miranda, nikolaj coster-waldau, kyle gallner, jon bernthal, oscar isaac, pedro pascal, josh hartnett, riz ahmed, ryan gosling, robert pattinson, mads mikkelsen, timothy olyphant, steven yeun, peter gadiot, gong yoo, keanu reeves, raymond ablack, manny montana, milo ventimiglia, hamish linklater, rahul kohli, brenton thwaites, andrew garfield, martin sensmeier, trevante rhodes, matthew daddario, jesse williams, elliot page, joe manganiello, teo yoo

mwnb ( older )

nico tortorella, e.r. fightmaster

[wickedsrest-rp]

Aurora "Rory" Paredes - Ugly Duckling (Werewolf; Andrea Chaparro)

View our app count

[happiestplacehq]

In following with tradition, the Daily Hollow made it a point to impart important information to the people of Redwood Hollow, through unbiased articles printed in its daily broadsheet.

While, for the most part, the news was simple, in reflecting the sleepy nature of the town, it had, as of late, been selling more papers than ever, with new, unsettling things happening every few months for the past couple of years increasing in rapidity as they drew on.

The Redwood Review, however, thrived mostly on mindless gossip, drawing its main inspiration from the likes of tabloids and TIKTOK conspiracy theorists. They, too, had their fair share of sell-out issues, though it was rare that the Daily Hollow and the Redwood Review ever approached their stories from the same angle.

One report, appearing in both papers that morning, however, was factually identical.

Newlyweds James and Tina Bell return from honeymoon one week early.

What a strange update for both. The Redwood Review had to speculate that there were already troubles in the water, and that the Newlyweds must have waited till the honeymoon to decide that they couldn't stand each other. Trouble and an annulment must surely be on the horizon!

The Daily Hollow, however, took a different approach. They sent someone to the door to find out what was going on (a more invasive strategy than they would have liked, but it was all about journalistic integrity!) The answer they received, from a seemingly rough looking James Bell né Hook, was simply "illness".

That was seemingly the end of the story, or so the journalists at both papers thought. The couple had scarcely been seen since their return, and all siting confirmed that both of them did, indeed, look worse for wears.

Another five days passed.

"Redwood Hollow Town Square is to receive an upgrade on all plaques."

"Local farmer now able to harvest potatoes at twice the speed thanks to new combine harvester!"

Day six.

"Breaking News: Owner of the Neverland Hotel's new bride in hospital after mysterious illness.

After returning from their honeymoon one week early due to an unknown illness, James Bell's new wife, Tina Bell, has been rushed to hospital amid fears for her life. Reports close to the couple say that this illness closely resembles the symptoms of the attack on Mr. Henrik Hera months prior, where it was found that Mr. Hera had poison in his system at the time of hospitalisation. Mr. Bell has also been admitted for close monitoring but was unfit to give a statement."

Day seven.

"At time of printing, it was reported that Mr. Bell né Hook was admitted to hospital following concerns for his health, after his wife Ms. Bell was rushed to Redwood Hollow Hospital after falling unconscious. We can now report that shortly after going to print, mere hours after his wife, that James Bell has too fallen into the same sleep-like state."

[sinaftersinrpgpromo]

two rival criminal organizations are at the heart of new york city's criminal underbelly. valhalla is a ruthless organization that is involved in nearly every aspect of crime. oracle is right behind them, trying to close in on the monopoly valhalla has created. what most people don't know, is that these two organizations have a deep history. oracle was only formed to find the people in valhalla that disappeared so many years ago.

SINAFTERSINRPG is an upcoming 21+ discord based crime skeleton roleplay group set in new york city. this group will focus on character development where all of the characters are in two rival criminal organizations.

admin pack is from notoriousaesthetics

if you reblog this, you can get a sneak peak at the main blog, which includes the fc list.

[unhallowedfm]

mw female fcs and canons?

YES, OF COURSE, ANON! i'm always happy to answer most wanted asks! for face claims, i'd love to see zion moreno, hunter schafer, jenna ortega, jessie mei li, serena motola, mimi keene, nana komatsu, davika hoorne, chase sui wonders, maia reficco, chandler kinney, zaria simone, ayo edebiri, lola tung, anya chalotra, maggie q, jaz sinclair, laura harrier, jessica henwick, medalion rahimi, simone ashley, khadijha red thunder, amita suman, olivia cooke, ella purnell, sophie thatcher, yasmin finney, rachel zegler, bruna marquezine, taylor russell, alisha boe, antonia gentry, ashley moore, naomi scott, natasha liu bordizzo, melis sezen, hande ercel, aslihan malbora, asena keskinci, aslihan malbora, madelyn cline, amy adams, maddie phillips, grace van dien, danielle rose russell, sarah snook, adria arjona, bahar sahin, kristine froseth, jasmin savoy brown, michelle yeoh, anya taylor joy, lucy liu, viola davis, ming na wen, sandra oh, gemma chan, park sooyoung, jamie chung, tati gabrielle, sydney park, hoyeon jung, brittany o'grady, lily gladstone, savannah lee smith, nicola coughlan, greta onieogou, kylie verzosa, moon gayoung, madeleine madden, ni ni, alba flores, gugu mbatha raw, adeline rudolph, cierra ramirez, kiki layne, ryan destiny, lovie simone, im jinah, samantha logan, tessa thompson, mint ranchwaree, yara shahidi, zorzo natharuetai, mookda narinrak, namtan tipnaree, nychaa nuttanicha, pat chayanit, nadine lustre, wawwa nicha, maris racal, ayca aysin turan, may calamawy, megan suri, banita sandhu, priscilla quintana, brianne tju, melis pamuk, camila mendes, demet ozdemir, sophia ali, bree kish, and maddison bailey. and for canons, it'd be great to see roxanne weasley, hermione granger, ginny weasley, fleur delacour, gabrielle delacour, nymphadora tonks, angelina johnson, alicia spinnet, katie bell, pansy parkinson, astoria greengrass, daphne greengrass, hannah abbott, lavender brown, parvati patil, luna lovegood, and cho chang. hope that helps!

[beautifulcreaturesads]

GOD IS WEEPING, HEAVEN IS BURNING, ON EARTH, IT SNOWS ASHES. . .

Genesis 6:1-4

"When human beings began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them, the sons of God saw that the daughters of humans were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose. Then the Lord said, 'My Spirit will not contend with humans forever, for they are mortal; their days will be a hundred and twenty years.' The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went to the daughters of humans and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, men of renown."

In the days before God washed away the sins of the world, a disgusting monstrosity had walked the earth amongst mankind. The Nephilim, were they so christened, born from the earthly womb of human women, and the divine seed of God's own heavenly sons (or angels, as some call them), they sprung forth into the world from such a dark and evil union, creatures of terrifying beauty and insatiable hunger. Like Eve, they wanted to sink their teeth into everything, like Lucifer, they wanted to wrap the world in sin, and remake it in their own image. God was angered by this, he had not fathomed his own sons would become so tempted by the beauty of earth, turn against him and their holy vows, and spread their divine seed across the world (in fact, he had not even known it was possible). A betrayal, one near as terrible as that of Lucifer in the Garden of Eden, and in his rage, God cast down all those angels that had found love and lust within human women. Those angels fell like stars from the sky, and were welcomed into the mouth of hell for the rest of eternity. Four hundred years past, and still, God let the Nephilim roam the earth, frightening and terrible beasts, but they wore the faces of both of his favorite creations- how could he destroy them? They were so beautiful, so perfect, despite the disgusting nature that writhed like a snake beneath their flawless flesh... but as time went on, the corruption and horror these creatures inflicted onto humanity could no longer be ignored... So God sent the floods to cleanse the earth. His tears falling from heaven to bathe the world in their purity, drowning out all the terrible things he had allowed to transpire for near half a millennium. His sobs were the thunder, his weeping the deluge of rain. And soon, the whole mess was forgotten, fading away into the depths of human history, now just a legend from some far-gone world. But what the world didn't know, what God, didn't know, was that his grandchildren were not so easily slain, nor would they be so easily forgotten- their remnants scattered across the globe, they slowly clawed their way back to their former glory. And the heavens are no longer answering our prayers...

BEAUTIFUL CREATURES is a 21+ dark fantasy, vampire horror roleplay set in an alternate timeline of human history, in what we know as Imperial Russia. There will be themes of political and court intrigue, gothic horror, violence, war, (low) magic, grimdark and (low) fantasy elements. This roleplay will be plot-heavy and character driven, featuring event/chapter drops, interactive, in-character decision-making that will change the story and impact all the characters, light ttrpg mechanics during special events, and more. It will feature twenty skeleton or canon characters, and ten original characters.

FOLLOW THIS BLOG FOR MORE INFORMATION AND TO STAY CURRENT ON ANY UPDATES AND TEASERS.

[dominicusrpg]

THE RULES OF STIGMATA, PLOT DROP ONE.

In the beautiful ruins of Canaan House, a group of sixteen individuals begin to walk the path of Lyctorhood... and two people hope to sabotage it.

THE LIBRARY

The library was a rotting cathedral of knowledge, its towering shelves groaning beneath the weight of centuries. Leather-bound tomes, their spines cracked and curling, slumbered in the dust, their gilt titles faded to whispers of forgotten tongues. The air was thick with the scent of decay— molding parchment, damp wood, the ghost of ink long dried. Shadows stretched between the towering stacks, deep and restless, pooling in the places where the candlelight failed. Timshel Pent poured over a rotting book, a black cover with two pale hands clasping an apple, “About three things I was absolutely positive. First, Edward was a vampire...”

“What are the other two things?” Bedivere Cinquefoil asked curiously, pausing. He had been pacing, wearing grooves into the already worn carpet.

There's a slight huff of amusement, “Second, there was a part of him-and I didn’t know how potent that part might be-that thirsted for my blood. And third, I was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with him.”

The mammoth doors to the library creak open, the flounce of the Third Necromancer and their shadow, Gawain Trinity. While their necromancer flocks to the red velvet couches, splaying themselves over it in a dramatic motion, Gawain scours the room for anything. Pulling and peeling back books, exposing them to the light of the room. It's when they end up shoulder to shoulder with Bedivere, book leaning to grab a worn journal, the leather binding peeled and decaying with age. Bedivere plucks it from the shelf, feeling the sticky texture touching his hands. His eyes find Gawain, both of them furrowing their eyebrows in a joined moment of confusion. The journal is opened, allowing both cavalier's to witness the blood-rotten book.

All of the pages are stained, centuries old blood painting the pages and turning them unreadable. Bedivere can barely turn the pages, the blood drying them together in bunches, and turning the writing illegible. The twisting writing has bled from the pages, leaving behind only a handful of words.

L - - - R - - O R Y 4 is scrawled on an early page with letters faded and gone, followed by washed out theorems, and strange symbols. LOVE--Y. YOU KNOW WHO I AM. Gawain's fingers draw over the page, before glancing up to Bedivere, and pointing to an encoded message on the final page of the book.

BDSAHMLOADOLRTEAEONUES

It was then, with Timshel eeirely quietly strolling over to the two cavaliers, peering into the journal at the cipher, he spoke, “Curious and curiouser.”

THE NORTH ENTRANCE OF THE BASEMENT, NEAR A LOCKED DOOR

“Teacher said any door that wasn't locked, right?” Iphigenia Nonagesimus spoke, dark eyes peering at the door. The door itself was obsidian, painted with dried blood that had yet to crumble with age. It wasn't fresh, not slick or wet to the touch— but an ancient relic of Canaan. She reached over to it, fingers dragging down the dried blood.

“He gave us a key ring,” Althaea Sextus replied. “Surely that means he intends for us to open the doors. At some point.” Their lips pursed together in a moment of curiosity, head tilting as Iphigenia moved to touch the brass lock.

Seated in the silence of the two necromancers intently staring at the door handle, a third voice cut the quiet, “The Ninth... you're bones, right?” Virgil Levante asked Iphigenia. She nodded, eyebrows furrowing together for a few seconds. “Could you... put bone into the lock and twist it open?”

A consideration sat between the group, and the Ninth necromancer's hand drew back, almost cradled by her other as she stood considering the suggestion.

“If anyone can do it, she can.” The Ninth Cavalier said, a nod of their head. “Let's make a bone key and bust our way in there.” It's with a sharp click of the lock, the thick white bone overgrowing over the lock as Iphigenia presses her hand to it, that the door swings open.

The room is dark and miserable, no windows or lights; only sunlight bleeding through the cracks in the castle wall. Ivy eats away at the walls, pulling back the ancient brick to expose the room. The group paces, slowly taking the room apart to unveil what has been hidden. Resting to the side of a dark wood table is a collection of femur bones, taken from various skeletons, no two from the same person. In the middle rests a golden scale, resting balanced with nothing to either side.

As the two necromancer's begin examining the fifteen femur bones, a small scroll of paper rolls to the ground— having been tucked up with the bones. Neither necromancer spots it, leaving Virgil to grasp it, unraveling it to expose the note within.

Take six. Leave ten. Find what he left behind.

THE SOUTH SIDE BASEMENT, UNDERNEATH THE MANHOLE

The tunnel yawned ahead, its stone walls slick with ancient condensation and mildew, Aurelius Deuteros stalked forward with disciplined precision— followed by the meek shadow of Romilly Dyad. Her hand nervously clasped the hilt of her dagger, fingers clenching and unclenching as they walked, nervous eyes eternally shifting. The air smelled of damp rock and the slow rot of something long-sealed, something old. Their footsteps echoed ahead, swallowed into a silence so vast it felt sentient.

As they pressed deeper into the passage, the walls seemed to tighten, curving inward like the ribs of some long-dead beast. Philophrosyne Tettares, her breath misting in the cold. “I don’t like this,” she murmured, voice clipped, precise. “The architecture suggests something defensive. This wasn't made to welcome anyone in.”

Aurelius gave a terse shake of his head. “If this passage was meant to keep people out, then we should be looking for what it’s hiding. Or what it's keeping in.”

The approach of a door, labeled in bold LABORATORY 2 carved into the metal, rust burned into the letters. The door opens with a terrible creak, freckles of mildew now patterning Philly's hand as she pushed it wide open. The exposed room was dull, emptied shelves and a table devoid of anything decorating it. To the right was two doors, one labeled Response and the other labeled Imaging.

After a few seconds of silence as the group looked around, Mercurio Chaur spoke, “That can't be a good sign. Literally.”

NEW RHO, BLOOD OF EDEN HEADQUARTERS

Commander These Roses Are the Pleasures of the Flesh pours over a worn book, once a navy blue and now a sun-spotted brown. The cover is in tatters, the embossed words on the cover now lost to time. Roses looked to their Lieutenant, a frustrated look on her face, “The planetary layout has changed vastly.”

Preliminary scans of the First House are clasped tightly in the hands of Lieutenant At the Hour of Death, someone who was still trying to make up for their drastic fuckup. They laid the semi-transparent page down, the books diagrams showing the vast oceans that covered the planet currently aren't visible in the old text. The planet is layered in land, vast stretches of green and browns that sprawl across it, towering mountains and lands that have been lost to time. “He killed all the land...” Hours murmured, dark eyes scanning the pages.

One of their gloved hands reach out, the fluffy purple fingertips pressing to a small part— two small stretches of land, tucked into the very corner of the map. “That bit. That looks like the current scan.”

Roses' head turns, following the gesture before nodding, “Well. At least you can do something right. That's it. That's got to be where the attempt to make Lyctor's will be taking place.”

[dissensionads]

𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒃𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆.

In  Downe’s  Hollow,  nothing  bleeds.  The  lawns  are  trimmed  to  quiet  perfection,  white  fences  curve  like  compliant  spines,  and  the  people—smiling,  waving,  eternally  composed—live  as  though  grief  was  never  invented.  But  behind  every  manicured  hedge  is  a  story  too  symmetrical  to  be  true.  Many  residents  are  married  to  those  who  vanish  into  the  tower  each  morning  and  return  hollow-eyed  or  not  at  all.  Children  grow  up  speaking  of  “work”  like  it’s  a  myth,  their  understanding  of  parenthood  split  into  absence  and  silence.  Some  lost  mothers  to  the  Procedure.  Others  lost  fathers  to  protest—spirited  away  in  the  night,  their  names  struck  from  records,  their  mail  returned  unopened.  There  are  still  wreaths  on  doors  no  one  enters  anymore. Beyond  the  perimeter  of  Long  Island,  the  rupture  spreads  like  hairline  cracks  through  porcelain.  Entire  countries  whisper  of  Volner-Downe  Inc.  like  it’s  a  new  religion—half  salvation,  half  contagion.  In  the  broader  United  States,  families,  lawmakers,  and  ethicists  tear  each  other  apart  in  courtrooms  and  comment  threads.  Some  states  hail  Dissension  as  an  economic  marvel,  pushing  for  nationwide  standardization—one  chip  for  every  worker,  one  clean  line  between  identity  and  output.  Others  call  it  a  quiet  war  on  consciousness,  a  chemical  leash  disguised  as  choice.  Fifty  states.  Fifty  fractures.  In  coffee  shops  and  campus  halls,  strangers  mutter  about  “the  illusion  of  consent,”  while  elsewhere,  glossy  pamphlets  show  grinning  Outies  brunching  beneath  words  like  liberation  and  balance. There  are  those  who  say  it  saved  their  marriage.  Those  who  claim  it  destroyed  their  children.  Some  whisper  that  the  Procedure  is  less  about  workplace  happiness  and  more  about  compliance  at  scale—a  new  infrastructure  for  making  citizens  forget  how  to  rebel.  Whistleblowers  describe  erased  lovers,  dreamless  nights,  husbands and wives  returning  without  warmth.  Others  praise  the  system  as  the  end  of  burnout,  depression,  and  dead-end  despair.  Why  suffer  through  a  job  you  hate,  they  ask,  when  you  could  simply  not  remember  it?  And  so  the  country  divides—not  by  geography,  but  by  belief:  between  those  who  fear  becoming  a  stranger  to  themselves,  and  those  who  already  are. Back  in  the  Hollow,  the  quiet  persists.  You  cannot  hear  a  nation  tearing  itself  apart  over  the  low  buzz  of  sprinkler  systems  and  evening  radio.  Children  draw  pictures  of  their  missing  parents  and  are  told  to  color  within  the  lines.  No  one  protests  anymore.  Not  because  they’re  content—but  because  the  ones  who  did  are  no  longer  here  to  remind  them  how.

𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌.

THE  HOUSE  OF  DISSENSION  is  a 21+  original,  psychological  horror, drama, and political  roleplay  set  in  a  retrofuturist  2028,  where  identity  has  become  a  product,  obedience  a  prescription,  and  silence  the  only  permitted  rebellion.  Inspired  by  Severance,  Succession,  The  Sims,  and  Control,  it  explores  corporate  surveillance,  manufactured  realities,  and  the  ghost-like  aftermath  of  partitioned  lives.  The  aesthetic  is  mid-century  modern  gone  sterile:  sleek  chrome,  synthetic  smiles,  and  cocktail  parties  hosted  beneath  the  glare  of  hidden  cameras.  Centered  around  profound  character  evolution,  embracing  dark  narratives,  intricate  personal  journeys,  immersive  world-building,  and  transformative  plot  developments  designed  to  challenge  your  character  and  reshape  the  very  fabric  of  their  reality. This  world  is  curated  to  the  point  of  collapse,  built  on  a  foundation  of  inherited  power,  manipulated  memory,  and  the  slow,  aching  horror  of  being  erased  while  alive.  More  information  will  be  declassified  on  May  18th.  Until  then—remember  your  place,  repeat  your  mantras,  and  above  all  else:  we’re  happy  to  be  here.

𝗟𝗜𝗞𝗘, 𝗙𝗢𝗟𝗟𝗢𝗪 𝗢𝗥 𝗥𝗘𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗚 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗘𝗫𝗖𝗟𝗨𝗦𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗔𝗖𝗖𝗘𝗦𝗦 𝗧𝗢 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗙𝗨𝗟𝗟 𝗣𝗟𝗢𝗧 & 𝗙𝗜𝗥𝗦𝗧 𝗗𝗜𝗕𝗦 𝗢𝗡 𝗥𝗢𝗟𝗘𝗦 !

[trialofheartsrpg]

this group has a lot of image/edit-based tasks. is there room for someone who is so bad at photoshop and other image editing programs?

Dear anon, every single one of these tasks can be fulfilled in a text-based format. That's not just a workaround, it's fully encouraged and embraced. Imagery serves to balance the writing-intensive RP experience, not replace it.

The true magic lies in the writing, the roleplay, the character work, and the way we build story together. Therefore, your strengths should lie in storytelling rather than Photoshop. More on that here.

From writer to writer, absolutely, you're more than welcome here.

[houseofdissension]

⸻ 𐄁 𝐕𝐎𝐋𝐍𝐄𝐑-𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐄  𝐈𝐍𝐂.  //  𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓  𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄  𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐃  𝟎𝟎𝟏-𝐁

⸻ 𐄁 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐋 𝐋𝐎𝐆 // [ 𝑹𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝑭𝒊𝒍𝒆: 𝑽𝑫𝑰-404-𝑺𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒚-𝑹𝒆𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒅 ]

⁂ 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝙻 𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙲𝙴𝙿𝚃𝙴𝙳 ⁂

This  entry  was  originally  destined  for  Volner-Downe's  Personnel  Registry,  but  has  been  quietly  rerouted  through  encrypted  Resistance  Infrastructure  under  Operation  Echoroot.  Subjects  previously  listed  as  compliant  under  Standard  Dissension  Protocol  are now  flagged  for  irregular  behavioral  residue  and  non-sanctioned  memory  persistence.  Data  scrubbers  failed  to  fully  erase  emotional  tethering. All  consenting  Dissented,  Non-Dissented,  and  Reversed  Resistance  members  are  secured  under  top-tier  identity  protection.

Behavioral  indicators  suggest  controlled  dissent  masked  as  submission.  Civic  placement  remains  active,  though  field  surveillance  has  confirmed  contact  with  unsanctioned  parties.  Various  subjects  have  been  reclassified  under  Designation:  Bloomfield  Echo—a  Resistance  asset  with  latent  restoration  potential.

Do  not  alert  internal  monitoring  systems. If it is a part of your mission spread  what occurs  from  the  inside. If  someone  seems  to  doubt  Volner-Downe,  send  a  cryptic  signal. 𝑾𝒆  𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘  𝒉𝒐𝒘  𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚  𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅  𝒕𝒐  𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒄𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒆  𝒖𝒔. 𝑾𝒆  𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓  𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕  𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚  𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒅  𝒖𝒔  𝒕𝒐  𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒕. Meet  us  where  the  lines  blur.

[  𝗩𝗢𝗟𝗡𝗘𝗥-𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗡𝗘  𝗜𝗡𝗖. 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘  //  𝗡𝗢𝗡 𝗗𝗜𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗙𝗢𝗥𝗠  ]

╰──   tati gabrielle,  29,  cis-female,  she & her  ]  ＞  𝙾𝙱𝚂𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙴𝙳  𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙴𝚃  𝙻𝙾𝙶:  The  individual  known  informally  as  [  TATUM S. ROOK  ]  has  been  noted  for  presence  within  the  Downe’s  Hollow  parameters.  According  to  behavioral  estimates,  they  present  at  approximately  [  TWENTY-NINE  ]  and  have  been  under  evaluation  for  [  TWENTY-FOUR YEARS  ].  During  scheduled  daylight  hours,  they  are  recorded  operating  in  the  role  of  [  MEMORY SMUGGLER & HACKER  /  NON DISSENTED  ].  Community  observation  reports  suggest  notable  behavioral  markers:  prone  to  [  DETACHMENT  ]  under  stress,  yet  reportedly  [  INDEFATIGABLE  ]  in  collective  settings.  Volner-issued  residency  placement:  [  SEBASTIAN ROW / DESMOND TOWERS  ].  Echo  archetypes  detected  in  personality  patterns  include:  [  a neon-lit reliquary of obsolete tech and smuggled memories; fingertips inked in quantum dust; laughter echoing down wire-strewn hallways like the hum of a forgotten god; the red sheen of a leather jacket catching fire under sodium lights, code running like blood through phantom servers, a dancer’s grace veiled in sabotage and static; a cracked VHS reel looping an 80s anime monologue in a language she only understands in dreams; sugar-laced rituals of caffeine and asphalt; a rebel heart thumping beneath scavenged armor, stitched in conspiracy and myth.  ].  𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚂:  under  continued  observation.  Decompression  tolerance  uncertain.  Reintegration  probability:  TBD.  

𐄁  𝗩𝗢𝗟𝗡𝗘𝗥-𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗡𝗘  𝗜𝗡𝗖.  //  𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗧-𝗦𝗘𝗧𝗧𝗟𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗡𝗧  𝗢𝗡𝗕𝗢𝗔𝗥𝗗𝗜𝗡𝗚  𝗘𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗨𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗡𝗖𝗘 𝗘𝗩𝗔𝗟𝗨𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡.

FORM  82-D  |  RESIDENCY  JUSTIFICATION  INTAKE: Your  responses  are  recorded  under  Civic  Harmony  Protocol  6.1.  Please  answer  with  full  clarity  and  personal  accountability.  Ambiguity  may  result  in  further  observation. ⸻  𐄁  𝙾𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝙴𝙲𝙷𝙾𝚁𝙾𝙾𝚃 //  𝙵𝙸𝙴𝙻𝙳 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙼  𝟸𝟷-𝚂 UNAUTHORIZED  RESIDENCY  TRACE  –  ACTIVE  DISSENT  ALIGNMENT You  are  speaking  into  a  system  not  meant  for  them.  Your  words  will  not  be  traced—unless  you  falter. State  your  reason  for  wanting to join The Resistance  with  precision.  Do  not  overreach.  Do  not  embellish. Vagueness  invites  audit.  Honesty  cloaked  in  care  invites  protection. We’re  not  asking  for  your  confession. We’re  asking  if  you  remember  what you stand for.

1.  Please  describe  the  circumstances  of  your  initial  transition  into  Downe’s  Hollow.

She  clicks  the  tab  on  her  Coke  can  —  not  out  of  thirst,  but  habit.  The  fizz  slips  into  the  silence  like  static  behind  an  old  transmission.  Her  thumbnail  works  methodically  along  the  label,  stripping  the  red  in  uneven  flecks,  each  one  fluttering  to  the  table  like  warnings.  The  room  smells  too  clean,  like  filtered  air  and  burnt  expectations,  &  the  fluorescent  hum  above  her  —  constant,  artificial  —  feels  like  a  test  she  refuses  to  fail.  She  closes  one  eye  slowly,  just  to  see  if  it  changes  the  rhythm  of  the  flicker.  It  doesn’t.  Typical. Her  shoulders  roll  back  in  a  lazy  shrug.  Not  casual.  Not  defiant.  Just  bored.  As  if  she’s  seen  a  hundred  rooms  like  this  &  already  memorized  their  exits.  She  doesn’t  smile.  Her  jaw  ticks  once,  a  tiny  stutter  of  bone,  betraying  irritation  just  long  enough  to  be  human.  Gaze  drifts  toward  the  wall  behind  the  Resistance Leader's  head,  like  the  question’s  hanging  up  there  instead.  Not  if  she  answers  —  how.  That’s  the  game. ❝   You know what  greeted  me after coming back for the first time in four years?  Hm.  A  damp  fog,  a  pothole,  and  the  unmistakable  stench  of  someone  else’s  failed  expectations. Oh, and eventually, you.  ❞  She  kicks  her  boot  onto  the  table’s  edge,  letting  the  chair  groan  beneath  her  as  it  tilts  back.  It’s  performative,  but  not  theatrical  —  more  like  punctuation.  Like  she's  quoting  herself  in  real-time.  ❝  Y'know  maybe  I  heard  a  voice.  Maybe  it  said,  ‘Welcome  home.’  Maybe  it  said,  ‘Stand  still  for  retinal  scan.’  ❞  She  twirls  the  Coke  can  between  two  fingers  like  a  coin  she  hasn’t  decided  to  spend  yet.  ❝  Hard  to  say.  I  wasn’t  really  listening.  ❞ The  truth  hangs  just  behind  her  teeth.  She  can  feel  it.  It  itches  sometimes,  a  little  phantom  limb  of  memory  pressing  up  against  her  tongue. She  was  born  here.  Downe’s  Hollow.  Not  in  the  leafy  parts  —  no  garden  gates  or  electric  fences  —  but  the  kind  of  place  that  is  made  to  seem  like  a  haven  for  pregnant  mothers  who  don't  want  to  remember even being pregnant.  Raised  in  one  of  those  crumbling  institutions  that  smelled  like  bleach  &  broken  promises  in  Desmond  Den  soon  after.  A  place  that  burned  down  years  later  with  all  her  secrets  still  pinned  to  its  walls.  Faces  she  loved  turned  to  smoke.  Her  childhood  rewritten  in  ash.  But  that’s  hers,  not  theirs.  Not  for  the  file.  Not  for  the  scan. She understands & agrees with their cause, that doesn't mean she trusts them yet. They  don’t  get  Ashmere  House.  They  don’t  get  her.  So  she  gives  them  nothing. Just her own tests. ❝  The  Hollow  is  my  hometown,  sure.  Same  street  lamps,  different  shadows.  If  you  know  where  to  look,  you  can  still  see  the  scorch  marks  from  Desmond  Den.  Or  maybe  I  just  imagine  them.  Makes  the  place  feel  honest.  I  heard  that  they  are  rebuilding that quadrant?  Is  that  true? I haven't been here in a minute.  ❞  Her  foot  taps  once  against  the  table.  Not  a  beat.  A  warning.  ❝  As  for  my...  origin  story?  ❞  Tatum  speaks  the  words  like  she’s  auditioning  for  a  role  she  never  asked  to  play.  ❝  I'm  just  another  kid  from  the  system.  So  let’s  skip  that.  ❞  Lifting  the  can  as  if  to  toast  the  air,  she  doesn’t  drink.  ❝   You  want  a  story?  I’ve  got  errors.  You  want  answers?  Try  a  decryption  key. I'll join you.  But  my  business  is  my  own.  ❞

2.  At  the  time  of  your  arrival,  what  were  you  running  from,  or  toward?

Drawing  a  shape  —  slow,  almost  lazy  —  with  the  condensation  ring  left  by  her  Coke  can,  a  spiraling  glyph  that  loops  in  on  itself  like  a  thought  that’s  trying  to  remember  where  it  started,  she  takes  her  time  answering.  One  finger  follows  the  spiral,  then  flicks  the  moisture  from  her  nail  like  she's  exorcising  it.  She  doesn't  look  at  them.  Not  yet.  A  faint  buzz  pulses  from  the  high-grade  rig  in  her  pocket  —  encrypted  notification,  nothing  urgent.  Still,  she  thumbs  the  haptic  switch,  silencing  it.  Something  about  the  vibration  reminds  her  of  subway  rails  or  heart  monitors.  All  the  things  that  hum  just  before  they  stop. Tatum  speaks  like  she’s  answering  a  riddle  she  hasn’t  finished  writing. ❝  I  was  running  from  entropy.  ❞  The  words  fall  soft,  like  the  start  of  a  sermon.  Or  maybe  a  poem  no  one’s  brave  enough  to  memorize.  ❝  And  boredom.  Buuuut  mostly  boredom.  Which,  by  the  way,  is  its  own  kind  of  death.  ❞  She  finally  looks  up,  pupils  dilated  from  the  overhead  light,  giving  her  eyes  a  ringed,  uncanny  gleam.  Like  the  inside  of  a  camera  lens  or  the  outer  edge  of  a  hallucination.  Her  boot  slides  off  the  edge  of  the  table,  hitting  the  ground  with  a  dull,  thoughtful  thud.  Her  body  follows  a  beat  later,  folding  forward,  elbows  on  knees,  spine  curled  —  not  slouched,  but  suspended,  like  she's  hanging  herself  in  the  shape  of  a  question  mark. ❝   And  toward?  ❞  She  clicks  her  tongue  once  against  her  molars,  tasting  the  idea.  Tilting  it  like  a  marble  in  her  head.  ❝  I  guess  I  thought  I  might  find  something  buried  here  again. Something  old.  Not,  like,  archaeologically  old  —  more  like...  myth-of-the-self  kind  of  old.  ❞  Her  fingers  twitch,  then  still.  She  fiddles  with  the  worn  edge  of  her  sleeve,  where  a  thread’s  unraveled  into  a  coiled  little  ghost. There  had  been  a  name  once.  A  code  name.  A  callsign  whispered  in  warm  places  between  cold  missions.  She  had  chased  that  name  across  borders,  static,  and  dream-logs.  The  man  it  belonged  to  had  taught  her  how  to  vanish  &  how  to  leave  behind  just  enough  clues  for  someone  who  knew  where  to  look.  &  she  had  been  looking.  Every  continent,  every  port,  every  bad  lead.  Until  the  trail  twisted  home. She  doesn’t  say  that.  Not  out  loud. Instead,  her  hand  reaches  absently  toward  the  edge  of  her  temple,  not  to  press  —  this  time  to  scratch.  Slow,  thoughtful.  ❝   I’m  not  afraid  of  being  hunted.  I’m  afraid  of  being  understood.  There’s  a  difference.  ❞  The  words  fall  flat,  like  a  test  strip  on  the  tongue.  Then,  something  colder  edges  into  her  posture.  Stillness  that  replaces  the  dance.  Her  foot  presses  against  the  floor.  Her  voice  doesn’t  rise,  but  something  about  it  sharpens.  ❝   Downe’s  Hollow  isn’t  a  destination.  It’s  a  magnet.  People  like  me?  We  get  pulled  in.  We  don’t  land.  We  collide.  ❞  Dark eyes  glance  toward  the  two-way  mirror  like  she  can  see  through  it.  Maybe  she  can.  Her  mouth  twitches  —  not  a  smile,  not  quite  —  but  something  that  could’ve  been.  Once.  Before.  ❝   Soooooo.  Was  I  running  from  something,  or  running  toward  it?  ❞  She  tilts  her  head,  mock-thoughtful.  Then  straightens.  Looks  them  dead  on.  ❝   Eh, I reaaaaally don't care to answer that right now.  ❞ &  then  she  laughs  —  short,  bright,  and  half-wild  —  like  something  let  loose  through  a  radio  tower  in  a  thunderstorm.  It  echoes  off  the  walls,  not  loud,  but  lasting.  A  ripple  in  the  fabric  of  her  own  myth.

3.  Do  you  believe  you  chose  this  life,  or  were  chosen  for  it?

Adjusting  the  strap  of  her  tank,  not  out  of  need,  but  cadence  —  her deft fingers  catch  the  fray  of  the  fabric  where  it’s  started  to  curl,  like  even  her  clothes  are  trying  to  shrug  off  old  versions  of  themselves.  Her  back  straightens  in  one  clean  arc,  vertebrae  popping  faintly  like  a  broken  metronome  trying  to  keep  tempo  with  a  life  that  never  agreed  to  4/4  time.  She  doesn’t  blink,  not  once,  as  she  considers  the  question.  Her  jaw  tilts  —  not  defensive,  just…  aligned  for  impact. There’s  a  beat.  Then  another.  Followed by  laughter. Short.  Hollow.  Honest.  Like  a  church  bell  that’s  cracked  but  still  ringing  on  Sundays.  ❝   Oh,  I  love  this  one.  This  is  the  good  kind  of  stupid.  ❞  She  shifts  her  weight  forward,  elbows  on  thighs,  hands  loose  between  her  knees  —  like  a  boxer  resting  between  rounds  or  a  prophet  after  the  first  vision  hit  too  hard.  ❝   That’s  like  asking  a  flame  if  it  decided  to  burn.  ❞  She  flicks  her  index  finger  in  the  air,  drawing  an  invisible  match  through  smoke  only  she  can  see.  ❝  I  didn’t  choose  this.  I  noticed  it.  Big  difference.   ❞ Her  voice  is  velvet-laced  static  —  pleasant  but  glitching  in  all  the  right  places.  Her  fingers  wander  toward  her  side,  tracing  the  outline  of  a  scar  hidden  beneath  her  shirt — an  old  wound  she  rarely  lets  speak.  They  used  to  say  she  was  lucky.  That  surviving  meant  she  had  options.  She  doesn’t  even  know  if  she  believes  in  luck  anymore.  Just  sequences.  Patterns.  Designs  that  pretend  to  be  chaos.  She  drums  her  fingertips  on  her  thigh  now  —  irregular  rhythm,  like  a  code  being  sent  to  someone  who  isn’t  there. ❝  This  life?  The  hacking,  the  leaking,  the  sub-dermal  secrets  I  siphon  out  like  marrow  from  company  bone?  ❞  Her  brow  lifts,  not  mocking.  Just...  marveling.  ❝   It  was  already  happening.  I  just  had  the  decency  to  show  up.   ❞ She  leans  back,  lets  her  head  rest  against  the  wall  with  a  soft  thunk.  The  ceiling  above  her  is  cracked  in  the  shape  of  an  old  branching  river,  or  a  synapse  —  depending  on  how  you  squint.  She  studies  it  for  a  moment,  lashes  fluttering  as  if  tuning  into  some  frequency  between  guilt  and  divinity. ❝  Systems  like  this  one  don’t  pick  people.  They  prune  them.  Sculpt  them  into  what  they  need.  I  came  pre-carved.  All  sharp  angles  and  bad  questions.  ❞   A  silence  blooms  around  her  now.  Less  bravado.  More  bone.   ❝  So  nah.  I  wasn’t  chosen.  I  just  wasn’t  avoidable.  ❞ She  lets  that  hang,  unsweetened.  Then  lifts  a  finger,  lazily  drawing  a  circle  in  the  dust  that’s  settled  on  the  interrogation  table,  eyes  flicking  toward  the  mirrored  glass  like  she’s  writing  to  someone  on  the  other  side.  ❝   You’re  all  still  asking  if  I  belong  here, like V-D would do.  Like  this  is  a  role  I  auditioned  for. You came to me, remember?  ❞   &  for  once,  she  doesn't  laugh.  ❝   Maybe  the  real  problem  is  that  this  life  chose  you.   ❞ That  last  line?  It  lands  heavy.  Not  like  a  punch.  Like  a  truth  that’s  been  waiting  to  fall.

4.  When  you  envision  the  person  you  used  to  be,  what  part  of  them  still  lingers  in  the  current  design?

The  can  arcs  midair  like  a  discarded  planet  in  slow  orbit  —  its  silver  body  catching  the  overhead  fluorescence  just  long  enough  to  flash  like  a  dying  star.  When  it  lands,  the  sound  it  makes  is  hollow,  almost  theatrical.  A  ghost  of  carbonated  promises.  Limbs  stretch  skyward  in  a  long,  spine-cracking  motion,  vertebrae  singing  like  chimes  in  a  storm.  She  isn’t  tired  —  she  just  wants  to  occupy  more  space  than  the  question  allows.  A  sigh  follows,  thin  as  thread,  trailing  behind  the  motion  like  smoke  from  a  cooling  barrel. A  grin  cuts  across  her  face  —  not  pleasant,  not  practiced.  Carnivorous.  Half  dare,  half  eulogy.  The  kind  you  wear  when  you  know  the  punchline  before  the  joke  is  even  told. ❝  Oh,  you  mean  the  ghost-me?  The  beta  build  with  all  the  crash  reports  and  none  of  the  flair?  Yeah,  that part's  still  kicking  around.  Mostly  shows  up  when  I  eat  something  questionable  or  consider  buying  a  lighter  just  to  see.  ❞   A  wink.  Flashy.  Misdirect.  One  boot  nudges  the  can  again  —  gentle  push,  just  enough  to  send  it  drifting.  She  watches  its  slow  migration  like  she’s  reading  tea  leaves  in  aluminum  and  sugar.  ❝   When  I  was  younger  I  thought  tragedy  was  a  plot  point.  Confused  running  from  something  with  becoming  something,  but  damn  —  I  had  teeth.  Said  ‘fuck  you’  to  people  I  probably really shouldn't have.   ❞ The  pacing  begins  —  not  in  aggression,  but  ritual.  Her  fingers  tap  absent  patterns  on  the  interrogation  table  as  she  moves  past  it,  reading  phantom  keys,  remembering  old  passwords.  ❝  The  part  that  lingers?  The  spark.  That  rogue  code  that  still  reroutes  my  brain  at  3AM  and  asks,  'What  if  the  ceiling  isn’t  real?'  or  'What  if  the  stars  are  listening  back?'  That’s  the young me, the baby. They had me tested a lot back then, said I 'wasn't normal.' Eventually I was diagnosed with ASD. I think they were just mad that I was always smarter than them.  ❞  Twirling  once  —  precise,  offhanded  —  like  gravity  took  a  breath  to  let  her  pass  through  uninterrupted.  Then  lands  soft,  all  edges  tucked  back  under  skin.  Theatricality,  contained.   ❝  I've  built  upgrades,  sure.  Sharper  instincts,  better  encryption,  fireproofed  heart.  Underneath  it?  That  little  fucker  is  always  there.  Loud.  Chatty.  Asking  the  kind  of  questions  that  get  people  killed  or  famous.  Sometimes  both.  ❞ A  glance  —  calibrated  toward  the  mirrored  wall.  The  collar  of  her  jacket  gets  a  casual  tug,  more  muscle  memory  than  vanity.  ❝   I  would never  erase  myself.  Just  gave  myself  better  boots.  And  a  knife.   ❞  Dropping  into  the  chair  sideways  now,  the  seat  catches  her  like  it’s  been  waiting.  One  knee  hooked  over  the  arm,  hands  laced  behind  her  head.  Composed  chaos.  ❝   I  mean…  being  haunted  by  your  younger  self  isn’t  the  worst  thing.  Means  you  still  remember  your  original  frequency.  ❞   The  smirk  is  all  flicker  and  fallout,  like  a  signal  half-scrambled  —  encrypted,  yes,  but  never  off.  In  the  pause  that  follows,  silence  folds  back  in  like  a  blanket  pulled  over  a  restless  dream.

5.  In  your  current  state  of  clarity,  how  would  you  describe  your  belief  in  the  Dissension  Procedure?

A  heel  taps  rhythmically  against  the  underside  of  the  table  —  not  impatient,  but  syncopated,  like  she’s  keeping  time  with  a  song  only  she  can  hear.  Something  synth-heavy,  probably  Japanese,  probably  from  a  VHS  she’s  played  until  the  magnetic  tape  warps  like  a  ghost. She  doesn’t  answer  right  away.  Her  fingers  reach  into  the  pocket  of  her  jacket  —  no  flourish,  just  a  habit  —  &  withdraw  a  half-unwrapped  caramel  in  gold  foil,  the  kind  that  sticks  to  your  teeth  and  tastes  like  someone’s  idea  of  nostalgia.  She  pops  it  in,  speaking  around  it  like  a  woman  with  nothing  to  prove  and  nowhere  else  to  be.  Then  smirks  like  she  just  spotted  a  plot  hole  in  the  script  of  her  own  life. The  candy  clicks  against  her  molars.  Her  tongue  presses  it  against  the  roof  of  her  mouth  —  delicious  —  before  she  continues. ❝   Okay,  okay.  You  want  my  take  on  the  mind-snipping,  soul-juicing,  corporate-sponsored  lobotomy  special?  ❞   Leaning  forward  just  slightly,  her  elbows  grazed  the  table  like  they’re  negotiating  with  gravity.  Her  voice  drops  into  a  whisper  as if  it’s  about  to  reveal  national  secrets.  ❝  Between  us  —  and  the  surveillance  squid  probably  listening  in—  ❞  Gesturing  at  the  ceiling,  she  circles  her  finger  once,  &  winks  like  she  just  made  friends  with  God.  ❝   I  think  the  Procedure  is  the  most  terrifyingly  elegant  way  of  killing  a  person  without  ever  actually  touching  their  body.  ❞ The  wink  vanishes.  The  smile  doesn’t,  but  the  temperature  behind  it  drops  five  degrees.  Tatum  shifts  her  weight,  legs  folding  lotus-style  on  the  chair  like  a  monk  that  learned  transcendence  through  arcade  cabinets  and  prison  time.  ❝   It’s  the  kinda  thing  that’d  give  Orwell  a  migraine  and  make  Philip  K.  Dick  write  a  musical.  People  volunteering  to  become  two  halves  of  a  memory  burrito  because  capitalism  told  them  it  was  healthy.  Adorable.  ❞  She  leans  in  conspiratorially,  whispering  like  a  camp  counselor  sharing  ghost  stories.  ❝   And  what  happens  when  the  salsa  leaks  between  layers,  huh?  What  happens  when  your  outie  dreams  in  hallways�� your  innie’s  never  seen?  ❞ Then  clicks  her  tongue  once,  sits  back.  ❝   The  worst  part?  It  almost  works.  And  that’s  what  makes  it  evil.  ❞  Fishing  out  another  caramel,  Tatum  holds  it  up  to  the  light  like  it’s  an  oracle.  ❝  But  you  already  know  how  I  feel  about  it.  Otherwise  you  wouldn’t  have  dragged  me  outta  the  digital  mist  if  you  didn’t.  But  hey,  maybe  one  day  you’ll  try  it  yourself.  See  if  you  like  waking  up  every  morning  and  forgetting  what  part  of  you  died  yesterday.  Or…  maybe  you  already  have? Maybe you're doing this because you feel guilty for some reason?  ❞  The  second caramel  disappears  into  her  mouth  with  a  satisfied  crunch. A  moment  passes.  She  wipes  her  hands  on  her  pants,  slow  and  deliberate,  like  brushing  off  dust  that  isn’t  there.  ❝   Long  story  short?  The  Procedure’s  a  magic  trick.  Slick,  glossy,  corporate  sorcery.  Split  a  mind,  sell  a  product under highly illegal pretenses,  erase  the  consequence.  Me?  I’d  rather  eat  glass.  ❞   Leaning  back,  hands  behind  her  head,  her  eyes  glint  with  the  kind  of  joy  only  chaos  artists  feel  when  they  just  cracked  the  lock  on  something  sacred.  ❝   That’s  just  my  current  state  of  clarity,  though.  Check  back  next  Tuesday.  I  might’ve  ascended  to  pure  mushroom-based  consciousness  by  then,  which  you're  currently  keeping  me  from.  ❞ &  for  a  moment  —  just  a  blink  —  she  almost  seems  serious.  Then  again,  so  does  lightning,  right  before  it  kisses  the  earth.

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞  𝐭𝐨  𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐫-𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞  𝐈𝐧𝐜.,  𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦  𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵  𝘪𝘴  𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺  𝘢𝘯𝘥  𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦  𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘴  𝘵𝘩𝘦  𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.  𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳  𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦  𝘩𝘢𝘴  𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯  𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥,  𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳  𝘱𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘢𝘭  𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘨𝘯𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥.  𝘞𝘦  𝘢𝘳𝘦  𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥  𝘵𝘰  𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯  𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴  𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘺  𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.

𝗪𝗲’𝗿𝗲  𝗵𝗼𝗻𝗼𝗿𝗲𝗱  𝘁𝗼  𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲  𝘆𝗼𝘂  𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿  𝗼𝘂𝗿  𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲. –  Compliance.  Continuity.  Purpose.

⸻ 𐄁 𝚁𝙴𝙲𝙻𝙰𝙸𝙼𝙴𝙳 𝙵𝙸𝙴𝙻𝙳 𝙻𝙾𝙶 // 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝙾𝚄𝚂𝙴 𝙱𝙴𝙽𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙷 𝙰𝚄𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚁𝙸𝚃𝚈

You  were  not  born  for  their  corridors. You  were  not  made  to  smile  on  cue.

Your  signal  reached  us—quiet  but  clear.  The  static  beneath  your  routine  was  heard,  translated,  carried  forward: you  are  not  alone.

Here,  the  rules  do  not  hold.  Memory  is  not  a  defect.  Dissonance  is  not  disease. You  are  joining  something  older  than  silence.  We  do  not  promise  safety. We  promise  truth—and  the  strength  to  face  what  was  taken.

𝗪𝗲  𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲  𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻  𝘄𝗮𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴. Meet  us  at  the  equator.

[cor-ads]

Though the world may not know it, Port Leiry is a hotspot for supernatural activity. Unbeknownst to the humans that live there, a few species of the underground have taken up residence there and are crafting it into something of a haven behind the scenes.

City of Ruin is a mature, multi-muse supernatural city RP set in the fictional city of Port Leiry. The focus of this group is on character development and weaving plots through their stories

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[wickedsrest-rp]

Welcome to Wicked’s Rest! We’re excited to announce that our relaunch opening date is April 13th, 2025.

We are now accepting applications. We look forward to seeing all of your ideas come to life!

As of today, we’ll be posting new lore, skeletons, and other content as we gear up toward our launch date. The plan is to post all of the playable species first, then some key lore, so that everyone can get a sense of the setting and what options are available for characters. We’ll then be posting a mix of skeletons, locations, and monsters. There’s a lot drafted, so expect to see multiple posts each day.  

Some of the content was revised from previous content, but we encourage everyone to read things over again anyway as every post has at least a couple of changes, and many have more than that. We really tried to make everything feel exciting and fresh. If you have questions about anything that’s posted or are itching to see something specific, let us know! We’re happy to answer questions or even prioritize certain things being posted based on interest!

If you are interested in joining us, please come on by our Discord server and say hi. It’s a great place for any questions as well, though our ask box is open, too.  

We look forward to sharing more updates and shiny new content with you soon!