helloworld1027

[helloworld1027]

Crimson Waltz in a Glass Palace

Very dramatic, I suggest you not reading it.Since I haven’t provide the needed information.You won’t know what the hell is going on.

Its just my OC being goofy.Besides, its long as hell.

Didn’t I already tell you not to 🤨?

Curtains Rise — The Trial of a Saint

The stage was dressed in crushed velvet and shattered glass. A palace, glimmering and broken, stretched behind the actors — a dream refracted in a prism of memory and lies. Center stage stood Belphoé, dressed in ceremonial white, shackled with red ribbons that shimmered like blood in the footlights. The mask of the “Condemned Saint” was fragile, porcelain-thin, with golden cracks running like veins.

The audience was silent. Not a cough. Not a breath.

From stage left strode Vyre, the “Unsmiling Executioner,” posture rigid, every step echoing finality. His blade dragged behind him like an extension of grief. The light caught on his mask — a void of obsidian, eyes hollow. In his hands, the law. In his silence, judgment.

Then came the flicker — laughter, tumbling in from nowhere and everywhere at once. The “Shadow Harlequin” danced in on a rope of silks, upside down, her bells jingling like mockery. Vyla spun midair, let her shadow loom large across the trial.

“Truth,” she whispered, dangling above Belphoé’s bound form, “is nothing but a well-rehearsed lie.”

The trial began.

As accusations rained and monologues soared, something began to shift. The audience leaned forward. Every glance between Vyre and Belphoé stretched too long. Every pause before a line spoke volumes.

Flashbacks cut in like shattered memories. A sun-drenched balcony. A trembling hand offered in secret. Vyre, long ago, smiling. Belphoé, then, laughing freely. Was that real? Or a lie Vyla had sewn into the script?

No one knew. Not even them.

-The Chains of Mercy

Act II opened in a hall of mirrors. Belphoé stood alone, reflecting endlessly — one figure multiplied, cracked, distorted. Every angle showed a different truth: a traitor, a lover, a liar, a martyr.

The mirrors whispered.

Vyla waltzed in with a lantern and a smirk, the spotlight trailing her like a faithful dog. “Love,” she cooed, tapping on the glass, “is a collar around the neck of trust. And darling, yours is tight.”

She danced a solo that blurred the line between threat and seduction, a choreography of questions Belphoé could not answer.

Then Vyre entered.

He raised the blade. His grip was steady. His voice, not.

“Mercy is a sin,” he declared. “Mercy is—”

He stopped. His shadow fell beside Belphoé’s. Close. Too close.

“I see you,” Belphoé whispered, voice shaking. “The real you. The boy who once gave me a daisy and told me stars were just lanterns for the gods.”

Silence.

The audience held their breath. Vyre’s hand trembled.

-The Final Sentence (or, How Sanity Died on Stage)

Act III began with Vyla cornering both of them in a triangle of tension so sharp the stage might as well have been a blade.

“You think you know your heart?” she teased, circling. “You think love’s a redemption arc? No, darlings. It’s the punchline.”

She threw truth like daggers. She spun stories that peeled back skin. And as Belphoé begged — not for freedom, not for innocence, but for one moment of something real — everything snapped.

Vyre moved first. Mid-monologue. Mid-tear.

He dropped the blade, cupped Belphoé’s face — and kissed him.

It wasn’t in the script.

The air went still.

Vyla’s eyes widened. Then narrowed. She laughed.

“Oh,” she said, “so we’re doing this now?”

She marched up, grabbed Belphoé by the collar, and kissed him too.

The crowd exploded. Cheers, gasps, a few faintings. Even the balcony shook.

Belphoé stumbled back, dazed, lips parted. “Did… did I just—”

His laughter broke the illusion. Not a line. Not an act.

Real.

And in that moment, everyone watching — cast, crew, critics — knew the truth:

The scene was ruined. The show was saved.

- Backstage Breakdown — “WHAT JUST HAPPENED?”

The curtain fell. Thunderous applause. But backstage? Chaos.

Belphoé ripped off his bunny mask, face still flushed. “WAIT. I KISSED BOTH OF YOU?! I THOUGHT—VYRE KISSED ME FIRST, I—WHAT WAS THAT?!”

Vyre, unbothered, unblinking “Was in character.”

Vyla, practically vibrating with mischief “Was horny.”

Belphoé: “WHAT—?!”

Behind them, the villain gang was imploding.

The Prophet stood like a thundercloud in clerical silk, arms crossed. “…Really? In front of me? In the house of God? While the world is ending?”

Herta clapped like she’d won the lottery. “WEDDING WHEN?? I want to design the cake. Let me dress Belphoé in lace!”

Clubs is just gone. Curled up in a corner backstage with the script clutched to his chest like it’s a safety blanket. “They… they skipped ten pages. Vyre doesn’t kiss people. Vyla was supposed to stab him. There was choreography… I practiced the light cues for weeks… I don’t know where I am anymore. I think I forgot how to breathe. Is it hot? Why is it hot? I think the play is cursed—” Clubs is full-on crying. Someone gives him a juice box. He weeps harder.

Diamond looked like someone told her tax season was eternal. “They hate improv. They loathe intimacy. They’re allergic to sincerity. So why—WHY—did they go off script?”

“Was it for drama? Was it for Belphoé? Was it because they're both spiraling into some incestuous chaos pit of mutual delusion?! I CANNOT MANAGE THESE PEOPLE-……..Do I have to rewrite the entire arc now? Do I just burn down the theater and start over? If I kill them, will they die dramatically or ironically? I can’t risk it.” She’s still standing an hour later. No one talks to her. Not even the Prophet.

Meanwhile, the audience thought it was all deliberate. Critics called it “a revolutionary, genre-defying climax.” They were wrong.

The twins had simply lost their minds. On stage. With tongue.

-The Prophet’s Internal Monologue (Unfiltered, Unhinged)

I have seen the death of kings. The end of time. I have watched fate fray at the edges of reality…

I have seen a thousand futures. I have witnessed empires fall in silence, gods crumble under the weight of hubris, time itself stitched back together by blood and bone—But NOTHING, absolutely NOTHING, could have prepared me for this DAMNED THEATRICAL SOAP OPERA I JUST WITNESSED.They KISSED. Both of them. On stage. IN THE MIDDLE OF A SENTENCING SCENE. Where was the grim tension? The pathos? The precision! This was supposed to be a delicate emotional crucifixion, not—NOT A MENAGE A DRAMA IN VELVET.

Why do I even write prophecies anymore? Why do I carry the burden of truth? If THE TWINS OF SPADES are just going to LICK THEIR TRAUMA IN PUBLIC?! And Belphoé—YOU—YOU LOOKED LIKE YOU ENJOYED IT. Of course you did. I cursed the wrong sibling. I SEE THAT NOW.

I could be meditating. I could be plotting the next five steps in our war against fate. Instead I’m standing in the wings of a crumbling moral institution watching a live-action fever dream...

I'm so tired…

-Post-Show Debrief (Villain Edition)

Scene: Backstage. Prop table overturned. Clubs crying into a curtain. Diamond sharpening a dagger. Herta sipping wine. The Prophet is a floor pancake.

Diamond slammed the ruined script onto a table. “OFF SCRIPT. THE ARC IS RUINED. THE SYMBOLISM? DEAD.”

Vyla giggled, perched upside-down on a shelf “But wasn’t it beautiful, though~?”

Clubs screeched from under a curtain “I MISSED THE SPOTLIGHT! I FAILED THE ART!”

Vyre poured himself tea. “I stand by my actions.”

The Prophet (from the floor) “I THOUGHT IT WAS A GLITCH IN REALITY. A COSMIC TYPO. GODS HELP ME, I DOUBTED THE FLAMES.”

Herta toasted the chaos. “Ten out of ten. Cried a little. When’s the wedding?”

Diamond embedded a dagger in the floor. “WE ARE VILLAINS. WE DON’T HAVE WEDDINGS.”

Vyla: “You’re just mad you weren’t invited.”

The Prophet sat up, trembling.

“If the stars whisper the moon will marry a carrot, I’ll buy rings. If fate declares Vyre and Vyla are capable of love?”

(He pointed at them, voice shaking.)

“I’LL F***ING BELIEVE IT.”

Everyone applauded. Clubs wept harder.

Bonus: Truth Behind the Kiss & The Prophecy That Saw It Coming

Vyre had been breaking for weeks.

He wasn’t meant to care for Belphoé. But he did. He saw how they flinched at praise, craved validation, and never believed love could be for them.

So when Belphoé whispered, “I want something real,” he snapped.

He kissed them. Not as a character. As himself.

And Vyla — watching her brother shatter — thought “Oh. It’s time.”

She joined not to one-up him. But because she'd always known they'd burn for Belphoé eventually. Better to make it a performance worth remembering.

“I always said love is a knife,” she later said, “but I never thought I’d let someone hold it like that.”

In the wreckage of the show, the Prophet found an old scroll — a prophecy he once dismissed:

“When silver tongues dare kiss the fool, And crimson bonds fray at the rule— Two masks shall turn upon the stage, Not rage, but love shall break the cage.”

He stared at it in silence.

“…It was always meant to happen,” he whispered.

The kiss wasn’t a mistake. It was fate.

And so, the play that broke the rules, the hearts, and the stage itself… became legend.

[helloworld1027]

“The Curtain Never Falls”

Written from the perspective of a traitor who crossed Diamond’s faction and was “invited” to La Sirena Hall.

Character profile below 👇:

The Drowning Room

By someone who thought they could out-swim a current like them.

I should’ve known. Gods damn it—I should’ve known.

The moment the bird burst into flame, collapsed midair, and broke apart into ash and silk, I should’ve thrown myself into the sea. Should’ve run, screamed, begged the gods of Azurinia for a ship, a storm, a lightning strike—anything but this.

But I was smug. Smug and stupid.

The bird was a message. A spell. A silk-feathered, sapphire-eyed messenger that chirped and smiled before it unraveled mid-song. The wind swallowed it like a prayer with no god to hear it. What remained floated to the floor of my stolen room—a letter. Thick paper, gold edges. My name written in velvet ink.

I laughed.

An invitation from them? From Velmare and Delmare? Those pretty freaks, those silk-tongued stains on Azurinia’s trade routes? I had outwitted them once—I stole ledgers right from under Diamond’s bloody thumb. Information meant for the high thrones of Elyzium, sold for a price no sane man would refuse.

I thought I won.

So I tore the letter in half.

And the world broke.

The walls around me convulsed like a creature exhaling. The ceiling shattered—not fell, shattered—into water and stars. My skin felt like salt dissolving into the sea. I couldn’t scream. Couldn’t run. A rune beneath the ink—clever bastards—bloomed into a spiral of impossible geometry. I blinked, and I was elsewhere.

The scent hit first: roses, seawater, and something wrong underneath. Something like blood disguised as perfume.

Then the sound: strings being tuned, faint laughter, gurgling water too calm to be natural.

Then the sight: La Sirena Hall.

They say the twins don’t kill you. They invite you. With silver voices and eyes that see into the place you bury your dreams. And if you accept? You drown. Not in water, no. In them.

I arrived in their office—if you could call it that.

At first glance, it was beautiful. Velvet drapes moved like gills along the walls. Paintings glimmered with sea-glass frames. Chandeliers swayed gently above, lit with flickering jellyfish. But then—I looked closer.

The tapestries weren’t tapestries. They were flayed skins, tanned, embroidered, signed.

The wall hangings? Tools. Blades. Hooks. Pincers. Painted gold and framed like ceremonial swords, a collection of pain hung like fine art.

Even the desk had carvings of faces—frozen in mid-scream.

I didn’t know I was walking until I reached the center of the room. Velvet carpet underfoot. Twin chairs before me.

And then, as if materializing from silk and shadow—

Velmare and Delmare.

They moved like dancers. Dressed in matching longcoats of white and opal, eyes like deep-sea pearls. Velmare wore gloves. Delmare did not. One smiled with closed lips; the other with teeth too perfect to be real.

They circled me like rays through water.

“How delightful,” Velmare cooed, voice a ripple on glass. “You came just as expected.” Delmare’s voice was fire beneath a tidepool. “Tried to swim.” “But the current knows.” “It always knows.”

I tried to speak. My mouth moved like I was underwater. All I could say was:

“I didn’t say yes.”

“You ripped the paper.” Velmare’s smile widened. “You accepted.” Delmare leaned forward. “Like a dog snaps at meat.”

I took a step back.

And they took one forward.

Together.

The worst part wasn’t their presence. It was what they said.

They didn’t accuse me. Didn’t shout. No threats. They just… talked.

About my parents—how my mother once wished I drowned in the canal at birth. About my lover, who once visited this very hall. About the words I whispered to myself when I cried at night—words I never wrote, never said aloud.

“Your betrayal wasn’t brave.” “It was the desperation of a man who’s always been too small.” “Trying to wear a crown made of dead secrets.”

“You wanted to be seen.” “And now you are.”

I began to shake. I think I told them to stop. Or tried. My voice felt like I was swallowing glass. My legs wanted to run but my body walked deeper into the room.

They sat me down.

“Tea?” Velmare asked. “No need,” Delmare said. “He’s already choking.”

I wanted to scream. I couldn’t. I didn’t know where the room began and where I ended. I wanted to beg.

I didn’t.

Not yet.

“So.” “Little fish.” “What do you think happens now?”

My mind cracked. I stood, eyes wide, and shouted, “What do you WANT FROM ME?!”

And then I saw it.

The twin smiles vanished. Not in anger. Not even in cruelty.

Just… stillness.

As if I had asked a child if dreams could bleed.

Delmare stood. Took a breath. And laughed. Loud. Heartless. Pure. Velmare followed, soft and elegant, as if laughing at poetry.

They turned to one another. Then to me.

Velmare approached. Took my hand like a lover at a ballroom. Placed something into my palm.

A knife. Polished. Etched with waves and runes.

“You already know what to do.” “All our guests do.”

I begged. For death. For mercy. For anything but me.

But their faces held no cruelty. Just curiosity. Admiration, even.

Like I was an actor who had finally remembered his role.

So I did it.

With shaking hands. With tears. With silence.

I ended it.

They watched.

Not with glee.

Not with sadness.

Just patience.

As the darkness came, I heard Delmare whisper—

“We knew you’d make the right choice.” Velmare added, “After all… you’re finally interesting now.”

I drowned. Smiling. Like them.

[helloworld1027]

Chapter? : The Library Where No One Knocks

featuring another OC, Noctaire Vaelis.Can this be counted as an OC showcasing?

Warning: Very long writing below.Or not.It depends.

There were no footsteps in the Chimeveil Codex.

Only ripples.

Gentle rings of water echoed endlessly, breaking the reflection of towering shelves and creating illusions of sinking and rising at the same time. The floor, if it could be called such, was a shifting, shallow pool of perfect stillness—ankle-deep, warm, and impossibly clear. The floor bore no bottom, only mirrored skies and shelves that rose infinitely into a dark, unknowable ceiling. There was no lighting. No windows. No sun. Only floating spirits—soulshards of unclaimed memory—drifting through the air like lazy fireflies. Their soft glow bounced on the water, creating a map of light across the library’s surface that shimmered with every ripple, every movement.

And still, in the heart of this dreamlike domain, there existed an ordinary desk with an extraordinary goatman slumped face-down across it.

Vaelis.

The librarian. Or perhaps, the prisoner.

He groaned quietly as one of his spectral hands nudged his shoulder, an ethereal flicker of translucent bone and glowing thread prodding him like a persistent sibling.

"I'm awake," Vaelis mumbled into the desk. “That was my soul trying to escape my body. Don't bring it back.”

Another hand swatted the back of his head gently, and a third floated over to straighten the golden dreamcatcher accessory hanging from his belt. The chain jingled like windchimes, a sound that echoed faintly down the massive corridor of books. Somewhere far off, a floating tome shut itself with a satisfying clap, pages rustling like whispers.

It was morning. Not that time passed properly here.

Vaelis rose slowly, pushing strands of white hair behind his droopy ears. He stretched, yawning with all the grace of a forgotten statue cracking after a thousand years of stillness. His heels clacked softly as he stepped into the water, no splash, only ripples.

The Chimeveil Codex was unusually quiet today.

Not that he was complaining. It was always quiet. Even when gods argued near the Forbidden Shelf.

He adjusted his earrings absentmindedly, listening to the chime-like tone echo briefly before being swallowed by the library’s endless space. Then, he began his rounds. Or tried to.

One of the hands—Hand #3, a little overzealous, a bit of a perfectionist—had already begun reorganizing the “Unwritten History” section. Vaelis sighed. "That's the third time you've re-categorized that shelf this century. Just leave it. If the past wants to be rewritten, it should send a formal request."

The hand floated away guiltily, and Vaelis allowed himself a small smile.

He began to walk again, leaving behind a soft trail of ripples that never lingered. The library, vast as it was, somehow shifted around him—aisles folding like thoughts, corridors rearranging themselves according to need. The Chimeveil Codex was alive in ways most didn’t understand. Vaelis barely did.

The Fate Annex was ahead now.

He didn’t go inside. No one did, except three.

As always, he paused at the threshold, watching from a respectful distance. Three figures sat around a table with scrolls floating like ribbons in the air.

To the left, the Goddess of Life—draped in a gown made of veins and clouds, their face youthful but their eyes ancient, scribbling with a feathered quill.

To the right, the God of Death, austere and still, skin like polished obsidian, speaking without moving their lips.

Between them, sprawled out and sighing dramatically, was the Grim Reaper themself, their cloak folded like a beanbag chair. They was bored out of their mind, tracing tiny skulls into the air with idle finger movements.

Vaelis raised a brow. “Still can’t agree on that one, huh?” he murmured.

The God of Death looked up and met his gaze.

“Fate is complicated,” they said. “Unlike librarianship.”

“I have fifteen hands and three spine injuries,” Vaelis replied dryly. “Don’t push me.”

He turned and walked on, heels ticking gently on the water. The spirits drifted around his head like curious birds. He passed the Section of Lost Names, the Index of Nonlinear Events, and a particularly dangerous aisle marked “Please Do Not Open Anything Here.” That one was covered in warning notes he himself didn’t remember writing.

Despite the solemnity, the loneliness gnawed at him. He wouldn’t admit it. But it was there.

Three hundred years, maybe more, and he still hadn’t finished reading a single shelf. The books re-wrote themselves. The knowledge shifted. Some volumes screamed when opened. Some whispered things he didn’t want to know. And yet, he stayed. Not because he was duty-bound…

But because this place felt like him.

Beautiful. Strange. Misunderstood. Haunted by things he didn’t fully know.

He stopped near the atrium—a particularly reflective spot where the water gave the illusion of floating through starlight. He sat on a large tome repurposed as a bench, dangling his feet in the glowing water, watching as his soul-hands cleaned cobwebs from the high corners of a shelf.

Somewhere behind him, a portal opened. The unmistakable sound of divine magic—like wind playing a harp string.

Vaelis didn’t turn.

“I already told the Archangels, no, you cannot store corrupted love letters in my library,” he called out. “Especially not ones that explode into poetry when wet.”

Silence.

He turned, only to see the shimmer vanish. No one.

He narrowed his eyes. "...Am I being haunted again?"

A book floated down and bumped his head gently. Another hand patted his shoulder. The spirits buzzed lazily around him like fireflies.

No. Not haunted.

Just… watched.

By gods. By death. By the fate he couldn’t read. And perhaps, by the pieces of himself he hadn’t found yet.

He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the books breathe. To the sound of pages fluttering like feathers. To the ripple of the water as the library exhaled.

Another day in the Middle Zone.

And he was still here.

Still waiting.

Still… not alone.

Not entirely.

Bonus:

✦ Glimpse: The Committee of Cosmic Disappointment

In the Fate Annex, where time itself had the courtesy to knock before entering, the air shimmered with tension.

Scrolls twisted mid-air like ribbons caught in invisible whirlwinds, quills wrote on their own with divine flair, and in the very center, three ancient beings sat at a table far too mundane-looking for its purpose: deciding the fates of the living, the dead, and the ones in-between (who nobody quite knew what to do with).

The God of Life sat straight-backed, their hair made of flora and nebulae, face aglow with an energy that could birth stars or tax audits. They were currently doodling a flower with a smiley face in the margins of a soul's profile.

The God of Death lounged like an overworked librarian, fingers steepled, eyes hollow yet sharp. Their form resembled a living inkblot, constantly shifting into familiar silhouettes no one could quite name.

And finally, there was the Grim Reaper, who had forsaken their scythe today for a half-empty cup of coffee labeled "Not Today, Soulface."

“Alright,” Life began, tapping a scroll with their nail, which made a soft ding like a xylophone. “We need to finalize the fate of Subject #54739. The mortal who’s on the verge of an emotional breakdown, romantic epiphany, and existential crisis all at once.”

Death made a thoughtful hum. “Oh yes. The one who tried to curse a god with a baguette. Creative.”

“I like them,” Reaper said, flipping upside down in their floating chair. “Very... narratively unstable.”

Life frowned. “They just survived a house fire, lost their pet dragon-cat hybrid, and their hometown thinks they’re cursed.”

“Character development,” Reaper muttered.

“You say that every time someone suffers,” Death said without even looking up.

“Because I’m right every time.”

Life sighed. “No. They need reprieve. Let’s send them a sign. A small miracle.”

Death slowly raised a hand. “Counterpoint: hear me out—pit them against a cryptid who only speaks in riddles and backhanded compliments.”

Reaper choked on their coffee.

“Why?” Life blinked.

“Because... it builds resilience.”

“You’re both a menace,” Life muttered.

Death shrugged. “Look, if we just gave people what they wanted all the time, they'd never grow. Adversity breeds strength.”

“Trauma isn’t a personality, Death.”

“Tell that to half the war heroes in Section B.”

Reaper lazily tossed a scroll into the void and watched it turn into a dove, then combust into glitter. “Okay but what if we don’t assign them a fate at all and just… see what happens.”

Life stared. “You want to freewheel destiny?”

Reaper grinned. “For chaos, yes. Also, I’m bored.”

“That’s how we got the Sentient Tax Office of the East last millennium,” Life snapped.

“That was a fantastic arc,” Death said wistfully. “The living still fear W-2s.”

Reaper spun around and hovered over Life’s shoulder. ��Fine. If you’re gonna force fate, at least give the mortal a hot mentor with an inexplicably tragic backstory.”

Life paused. “...With long hair and glowing eyes?”

Reaper’s eyes sparkled. “And a mysterious pendant they never explain!”

Death groaned and buried their face in their palm. “We’re not writing a fanfiction—”

“We’re literally writing fate,” Reaper grinned. “Same thing.”

Life finally muttered, “Okay. Fine. They’ll meet a tragic exiled warrior librarian goatman.”

Death looked up. “...Vaelis?”

“Yeah,” Life said. “Let’s throw them into the Chimeveil Codex and see what happens. Worst case scenario, they become a philosopher. Or traumatized. Or both.”

“Character development,” the three said in eerie unison.

Then they laughed.

High, low, and somewhere in-between. The sound echoed through the Codex, where somewhere far away, a goatman paused mid-step, looked up, and muttered, “I feel like someone just signed me up for nonsense.”

The scroll sealed itself with a flourish. A ripple traveled through reality. The fate was written.

And the gods moved on.

To the next poor soul.

Who, according to their notes, was about to meet a mysterious fox bartender, a crying angel, and a sentient bar menu that judged your order based on your personality.

Just another Tuesday in the Middle Zone.

[helloworld1027]

A Soft Morning in the Middle Zone

This is an OC x OC.

I do apologize if Im using the wrong tags.

Summary: Post-job-quitting domestic bliss with one (1) hellspawn girlfriend and one (1) severely exasperated ex-criminal psychologist

a story featuring two of my OCs.Don’t judge me, let me feed myself in peace.

If you’re interested, can see their profile using the tag (hopefully).

Isolde woke up with a lungful of… absolutely nothing.

Her eyes snapped open in survival instinct alone, limbs stiff and suffocating under the weight of something terrifying, soft, and—somehow—smelling like wine and ruined morals.

Maria.

Correction: Maria Dravareth, 202 centimeters of demonic affection compressed into a full-body clingwrap cuddle, currently draped over Isolde like a weighted blanket possessed by love and hell’s fashion industry.

Isolde couldn’t move. Her right arm was pinned under Maria’s waist. Her face was squashed halfway into a silk-clad shoulder. And one leg—just one—was hanging off the bed like it had lost all hope.

“…Maria,” she wheezed, “I can’t breathe.”

A pause. Then, without so much as lifting her head, Maria slowly blinked—lashes long, face bare of makeup, moonlight-pale skin against the gold of her eyes—and gave Isolde a look.

A look that said: Breathe less. Stay longer.

“You’re warm,” Maria murmured, voice low and silk-wrapped like her robe. “Like those little heated stones they put in spa baths. But alive.” She tilted her head and smiled in a way that made Isolde feel both deeply loved and like an appetizer. “I like that.”

“You’re crushing my spine.”

“Such dramatic metaphors, darling. And before breakfast, too.”

Isolde groaned and turned her head an inch, just enough to get nose-level with Maria’s neck. Unsurprisingly, she still smelled like dark cherries, warm spice, and sin in velvet form. Somehow, even in sleepwear and with no eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man, Maria managed to look like she owned a gothic vineyard and at least three kingdoms in debt to her.

Her silk robe had slid off one shoulder. Her hair—a silver waterfall laced with black streaks—had tangled between them like a spell made of fine thread. Isolde had to admit: Maria’s bare face was… unfairly beautiful. Less “goddess of hellfire” and more “reclusive deity who drinks antique wine while writing passive-aggressive poetry.”

“I thought you didn’t sleep,” Isolde muttered, attempting to escape by wriggling like a trapped caterpillar. She failed.

Maria shifted lazily, tightening the cuddle trap, tucking her head beneath Isolde’s chin like a very luxurious large cat.

“I don’t,” she said. “But you do. And you looked peaceful. So I decided to study.”

“Study?”

“Your face.”

Isolde let her head fall back onto the pillow in sheer resignation.

“You’re so creepy in the morning.”

“Romantic,” Maria corrected, her breath warm against Isolde’s collarbone. “Obsessively devoted. Like the old artists who sculpted their lovers even after death.”

“That’s worse.”

“I think it’s sweet.”

Isolde rolled her eyes and exhaled slowly through her nose. Somewhere outside, the Middle Zone city buzzed faintly with undead errands and infernal traffic. But in here, in this absurdly plush bed buried under silk sheets and infernal throw pillows, it was quiet. Just two women wrapped in silence—and each other.

After a few beats of stillness, Maria stirred.

“I could make breakfast,” she offered, too casually.

Isolde narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “You can cook?”

“No,” Maria admitted. “But I enjoy watching food burn with purpose.”

“Okay, no. We’re getting up.”

With great effort—and the strength of someone who had survived a decade of interviewing psychotic pirates—Isolde shoved. Maria groaned dramatically, flopping back with the grace of a fallen opera singer, limbs sprawled across the bed like a goddess inconvenienced by mortal boundaries.

Isolde sat up, pajamas wrinkled, glasses slightly askew, hair a bird's nest. She looked like she'd been through war.

Maria looked up at her like she was the first sunrise after a thousand years of darkness.

“…Don’t look at me like that,” Isolde mumbled.

“Like what?” Maria purred.

“Like you’re about to propose or commit arson. Possibly both.”

Maria smiled, lazy and adoring. “I’ve done worse for love.”

And then, softly, half-laughing despite herself, Isolde reached down, took Maria’s hand, and said:

“Fine. But if you try to make pancakes with blood again, I’m moving back to Azurinia.”

Maria gasped. “That was a festival tradition.”

“It crackled.”

“A symbol of devotion.”

“It hissed at me.”

Maria sat up, took her hand back, and with an exaggerated, noble sigh, placed it over her heart. “Love is pain.”

“And you're the embodiment.”

And then, in the quiet that followed, Maria leaned in, pressed a gentle kiss to Isolde’s temple, and whispered:

“Good morning, my cruel little compass. Let’s survive today… together.”

Isolde, blushing furiously but hiding it under layers of sarcasm and dry humor, responded the only way she knew how.

“…I swear if you try to monologue before coffee, I’m putting holy water in the kettle.”

Maria grinned.

“Worth it.”

.

.

.

Fifteen minutes later, Isolde stood barefoot in Maria’s marble kitchen, arms crossed, watching a culinary tragedy unfold in real-time.

Maria, still in her flowing silk robe, had decided that breakfast was a performance, not a recipe. And like any true diva, she was putting on a show.

With zero survival instinct.

“You know,” Isolde said slowly, eyeing the skillet, “most people turn the stove on after putting the oil in. Not before. That’s just common sense.”

Maria, one hand delicately lifting a golden ladle like it was a holy relic, gave her a glance over her shoulder—equal parts amused and insulted. “Darling, oil is more obedient when it fears you.”

The pan sizzled. Violently.

“…Is that wine?” Isolde asked, horrified, watching a deep red splash hit the already unstable oil like a Molotov cocktail in high heels.

“It’s cooking wine,” Maria said, which did nothing to clarify the issue.

Isolde pinched the bridge of her nose. “That’s a bottle from your 500-year-old stash.”

Maria stirred the chaos in the pan with the casual confidence of someone who had never followed a recipe in her life. “Well, yes. I was going to drink it later, but you looked tired, so I thought: why not infuse breakfast with vintage affection?”

Isolde watched the mixture hiss like an angry demon. “That affection is evaporating.”

“Good,” Maria said, grinning. “You’re getting the aroma.”

The kitchen smelled like herbs, cherry, and inevitable regret.

Meanwhile, the eggs—poor, innocent eggs—were sitting nearby. Raw. Untouched. Forgotten like unpaid taxes. Isolde sighed, stepped forward, and gently, quietly, took the pan out of Maria’s hand like someone disarming a bomb.

“No.”

“But—”

“No, Maria.”

“…I was being romantic.”

“You were summoning something.”

Maria looked vaguely betrayed. “It would’ve tasted like love.”

“It would’ve tasted like court-ordered exorcism.”

They stared at each other. Maria, tall, sulky, silk-clad and dramatic as ever. Isolde, short, practical, in slightly rumpled brown pajamas, holding the pan like a shield.

Then Maria’s lips quirked. Just a little.

“Fine,” she murmured, backing up with theatrical surrender. “But only because watching you get flustered in the kitchen is almost as delicious.”

Isolde ignored her and cracked an egg into a clean pan. The sound of sizzling—normal sizzling—filled the space. A minor miracle.

Maria leaned back against the counter, arms folded, hair falling down her back like a curtain of silver and black. She watched with something far too close to admiration.

“…You know,” she said idly, “you’d make a good wife.”

Isolde paused, spatula mid-flip.

“…We are not doing that conversation over eggs.”

Maria only smiled. Slowly. Like a cat with a secret.

“Noted.”

They finished cooking without further arson. The kitchen survived. Barely.

At the table, Isolde plated toast and eggs while Maria poured something suspiciously red into two glasses.

“Juice?” Isolde asked warily.

Maria handed her the glass, eyes gleaming. “...Yes.”

“…You’re the worst liar alive.”

Maria just raised her glass and clinked it gently against Isolde’s. “To your first morning of freedom, my compass. May all your future employers tremble.”

Isolde snorted, took a sip, and made a face.

“...This is wine.”

“Then let it be known,” Maria said with satisfaction, “breakfast has been redeemed.”

[To Be Continued…or not.I have wrote enough.]

[helloworld1027]

[CONFIDENTIAL] — International Bounty Archive: Subject File #D-Ω02

Alias: The Smiling Drowners

Names: ? & ? (Manta Ray Merfolk Twins)

Affiliation: Diamond, Member of the Four Suits

Threat Level: Eliminate on Sight

 Confirmed Criminal Record

Mass Murder (Ritualistic, Political, and Recreational)

Familicide / Uxoricide / Regicide (All cases unsolved — fingerprints made of coral ash)

Terrorism (Psychological, Magical, and Bio-Nautical)

Genocide (Extinction of multiple island tribes via slowwater poisons)

Human Trafficking & Enslavement (Primarily actors, children, and priests)

Mass Corruption (Cities now under puppet governments after “charity deals”)

Fraud / Blackmail / Extortion (Operating under hundreds of stolen identities)

Robbery (Of vaults, reliquaries, magical grimoires, and even a city bell tower)

Brainwashing / Cult Engineering (Underwater churches spreading Diamond's gospel)

Cannibalism (Ceremonial, disguised as “sacred communion feasts”)

Sabotage / Arson (Especially of ports, naval routes, and sea temples)

Kidnapping / Unlawful Imprisonment (Including diplomats and demigods)

Crimes Against Humanity (Confirmed oceanic-level ecological tampering)

Incrimination (Impersonating victims during trials to destroy survivors)

Assault & Battery (With legal immunity in corrupt courts)

Identity Theft (Magically replicating voices, faces, and even emotions)

Endangerment / Manslaughter / Mutilation (Collateral during "deals")

Animal Cruelty (Torture of sacred sea creatures for fun and messages)

Human Sacrifice (Via contracts signed in breath, not ink)

Stalking (Long-term emotional breakdown of targets before the strike)

Conspiracy / Treason (Against major powers including Elyzium & Orphyria)

Organ Harvesting (Often sold back to victims’ families at “bargain rates”)

Corpse Desecration (Dresses them for “encore” performances)

Indecent Exposure (Public executions dressed as burlesque acts)

Attempted Omnicide (Once released a memory-virus spell targeting “love itself”)

Warning: Do not accept gifts, letters, or confessions from twins bearing silver fins and endless smiles. Contact with either individual may result in loss of legal, mental, or spiritual sovereignty.

Currently working on another new OC, do you have any ideas on what should I name them?

They’re Manta rays Merfolk :)

“Diamond says beauty is what remains after everything else has drowned. So let us help you drown.”- Twin A, the one in the left side of the picture.

“Truth doesn’t rise to the surface. It drowns quietly, with no one to grieve it.”- Twin B, the one in the right side of the picture.

Basic information about them below, will edit to a full profile once I have enough ideas :)

The complete picture will be shown as soon as I finish it.

Manta Ray Twins — Role as Diamond’s Minions

1. Her “Curtains” — They Set the Stage

They act as scouts and scene-setters, going ahead of Diamond to:

Spread misinformation or illusions

Poison perceptions with lies or suggestions

Shape the emotional “theater” of an encounter before she even arrives

I think of them as stagehands and puppeteers, not center-stage actors — that’s Diamond’s role.

2. Enforcers of Diamond’s Will (Executioners)

They don’t talk much. When Diamond gives an order, they carry it out with grace and cruelty:

Silently kidnap targets

Remove “mistakes” or enemies who learn too much

Erase evidence of their involvement

Like beautiful shadows — they leave behind corpses with no trace of the kill

3. Underwater/Coastal Control

Being merfolk, their domain would naturally be oceans, lakes, rivers, coastal towns, etc.

They ensure maritime dominance for Diamond

Transport goods, stolen relics, or forbidden knowledge through sea routes

Sink ships that carry information too dangerous to surface

Act as hidden ambassadors or assassins during naval missions

4. Surveillance and Intelligence Gathering

Their large, perceptive eyes and vibration-sense could be used for

Spying on enemies via water reflections or vibrations

Tracking the protagonist’s movement through watery regions

Recording and relaying events to Diamond using mirrored water magic

One twin might stay near the target while the other reports to Diamond, giving her a two-view tactical edge

5. Emotional Projection / Manipulation

Manta rays are known to be emotionally intelligent and playful.

The twins may emit aura-like emotional pulses that make people feel safe, calm, or loved — just before they kill them

Could be used to manipulate innocent people into helping or betraying others

Diamond may use them to extract confessions or memories through emotionally-charged hallucinations

Personality & Style

Both Twins:

Sadistically intelligent: They enjoy psychological manipulation more than brute violence.

Cunning and composed: They rarely show anger, preferring slow, controlled punishments.

Gleeful deceivers: Their favorite moment is watching the exact second a victim realizes they’ve been played.

Maestro-level social manipulators: Run smuggling rings, false rescue cults, confession-parlor traps.

Fluent in legal loopholes, magical contracts, and emotional blackmail.

Use their beauty and charm like venom — especially when dealing with the desperate.

Signature Behaviors:

Switch mid-sentence during conversations to disorient and unsettle. They finish each other’s lines not out of love — but because it confuses prey.

Often pretend to be simple couriers, then reveal the deadly price of what they brought.

Rarely kill directly. Instead, they let victims destroy themselves with the deals they accepted.

Nickname: “The Smiling Drowners”

Whispers say they offer salvation in a drowning world — a lie to lure the broken.

Their smiles are too perfect, too wide — said to stretch unnaturally in the moonlight.

Survivors claim, "They didn’t kill me. They just smiled… and I jumped."

[helloworld1027]

OC profile-“The Thorned Crown”

[UNFINISHED]

Will be edited when I feel like writing, or when the drawing is finished :)

"They crowned me with what they tore from my soul — and called it inheritance." — Maria Dravareth, reflecting on the cost of becoming the heir to House Dravareth

Name: Maria Dravareth

Age: Unknown (Appears 20s, Estimated: 130+ years)

Alias: The Crown of Ashes, Velvet Executioner, The Devil’s Favorite Daughter

Race: Human (Preserved by Hell’s influence)

Origin (Nationality): Chronomir

Occupation: Heiress of House Dravareth (Infernal Noble), Diplomat of the Lower Realms, Collector of Lost Truths

Birthday: August 2nd

Height: 202 cm

Weight: 98 kg

Constellation: The Marionette (A constellation symbolizing manipulation, control, and beauty masked in strings)

The Marionette — Constellation Myth

Long ago, there was a goddess who never danced.

She sat atop her ivory throne, silent and adored, her beauty unmatched, her movements absent. Her worshippers begged for a glimpse of grace, a whisper of emotion, but the goddess remained still—until one day, a nameless puppeteer arrived.

He carved strings from starlight and laced them through her limbs. He smiled, bowed, and made her dance. Not for glory. Not for love. But for control.

And she did—graceful, stunning, perfect. The heavens wept at the sight.

But the goddess was never freed. She learned to smile as the strings pulled. To sway as they demanded. Until, one night, she turned her head—not from the crowd, but to the puppeteer—and smiled back.

Not grateful. Not broken. Knowing.

The next night, the puppeteer vanished. No soul remembers how. But the strings remain, and so does the dance.

Now, The Marionette glows high in the southern sky—limbs poised, head tilted, with threads that shimmer and twitch in starlight. A constellation worshipped not for purity, but for power masked in poise.

Those born under it are said to be beautiful, brilliant, and bound to nothing but the illusions they weave.

Appearance

Tall, commanding presence, often mistaken for a high demon due to the sheer pressure she exudes.

Long white hair with black streaks starting from the roots, reaching down to her ankles — a visual reminder of her inheritance from Alvoz.

Velvet red eyes, often lined in smoky black shadow.

Wears dark velvet suits, flowing infernal gowns, or structured dresses with slit sides and ornamental weapon harnesses.

Her color palette: Velvet red, ashen white, and deep beige-black, echoing blood, bone, and scorched silk.

Heavy makeup, always deliberate: deep red lips, intense liner, flawless pale skin. Think elegant mafia queen meets infernal goddess.

Maria Dravareth moves like a curse that chose elegance over malice—tall, with a presence that makes even devils second-guess their hierarchy. Her ankle-length white hair, streaked with black from the roots, cascades like a slow-burning omen, unmistakably marking her as Alvoz’s heir. Velvet red eyes, rimmed in smoldering shadow, scan the world with the poise of someone who already knows how it ends. Her wardrobe blends infernal regality with lethal grace—tailored velvet suits, slit gowns, and ornate harnesses that make weaponry look like jewelry. Every detail—down to her blood-red lips and immaculate pale skin—speaks of power, control, and a beauty so deliberate it feels like a threat.

Personality

Charismatic, cunning, theatrical. She walks like she owns the world and might if no one stops her.

Every word she says carries weight, sarcasm, or both.

Extremely loyal to a very small circle: Isolde, Alvoz (begrudgingly), and maybe Mikhail.

Low-key obsessive in love, but masks it behind languid affection.

Never raises her voice. Doesn't need to. Her calm is terrifying.

Finds deep joy in making people uncomfortable—especially nobles.

Affection = destruction wrapped in silk. She adores Isolde so much it unsettles devils.

Charisma is her weapon, not a trait. She wears it like perfume—thick, deliberate, intoxicating, and suffocating if you breathe too long.

Her elegance isn’t a performance; it’s a warning. Every word is chosen, sharpened, and set loose like a needle laced with poison. Sarcasm comes naturally. Silence comes easier. She doesn’t speak unless the silence itself is worth breaking.

Power doesn’t excite her. Reactions do. Watching people unravel at the seams because of a single, well-placed phrase? That’s art. Especially if they’re noble. Especially if they think they’re better.

Loyalty, for her, is absolute—but only for three people: the woman she loves so hard it borders on divine possession, the man she hates too deeply to abandon, and the ghost of someone who might matter someday. Anyone else can rot.

In love, she’s not romantic—she’s consuming. She doesn’t fall. She surrounds. She doesn’t ask for love back. She ensures it. Slowly. Sweetly. Obsessively. If Isolde ever asked for her heart, Maria would hand it over still beating—with someone else’s name carved into it just for fun.

She never yells. Yelling is inefficient. Her calm is the kind that makes trained killers hesitate. When she smiles, you check your drink. When she laughs, someone’s reputation dies.

Her kindness, when it comes, feels like being stared at by a predator that just isn't hungry yet. She will help you. But you’ll owe her. Even if she never says it.

And if you ever get on her bad side, she won’t curse you. She’ll compliment your shoes, call you “darling,” and remind you—gently, lovingly—that you’ve made a terrible mistake.

She doesn’t believe in redemption. Just debt, leverage, and consequences dressed in crushed velvet.

And despite it all—beneath the warpaint, the blades, the barbed flirting—she’s lonely in a way she’ll never admit. Not because no one loves her. But because no one dares to.

Background

Born in Chronomir to a noble family known for defying Hell’s influence.

Her family was annihilated by Alvoz for treasonous pride.

Maria, still a child, survived and confronted him. He adopted her instead of killing her.

Raised under infernal law, she learned devil etiquette, diplomacy, seduction, blood rituals, and blade dancing.

She never forgot her past. She carries it like a crown made of thorns.

By being the heir of the Dravareth name, she ensures her parents’ enemies will bow to her someday.

Loves Isolde with a passion so feral it aches. It keeps her grounded… dangerously so.

Role in Party (Fighting)

Debuffer / Duelist / Intimidation Specialist

Uses infernal magic to weaken enemies' resolve, cause hallucinations, or charm lesser minds.

Specializes in single-target duels with blade-whip weapons and cursed velvet thread.

Able to force truth out of enemies or cause breakdowns with a whisper.

Combat Style

“Velvet Guillotine”

Dresses that flare when she spins, high heels clicking like a death toll.

Combines psychological warfare with graceful, fast-paced movement.

Her blades are almost invisible, hidden in threads, jewelry, or fans.

Hobbies

Collecting cursed objects (decoratively)

Watching Isolde sleep (no, she’s not sorry)

Reading legal documents for fun

Creating aliases for herself and using them in high society games

Throwing parties just to observe social collapses

Pet Peeves

People who ask “are you really human?”

Shallow seduction tactics

Being told she “owes” Alvoz

When Isolde tries to bottle up her pain

Poor table manners

Favorite Food

Spiced blood-orange wine and slow-roasted red meats

Isolde’s homemade seafood stew (she pretends it’s mid, but secretly hoards leftovers)

Least Favorite Food

Anything bland. If it’s beige and mushy, it’s dead to her.

Talent

Lie detection via eye contact (not magical, she just knows)

Weaponized body language — she can flirt, terrify, or console just by tilting her head

Fluent in 12 languages, 3 dead tongues, and one only spoken in Hell’s courtrooms

Speech Style (Voice = Velvet and Vice)

Greeting Strangers:

“Well, if it isn’t a new piece on the board. Do you play, or just watch?”

Farewell Phrases:

“Until next time, darling. Try not to die too messily.” “That was… fun. Let’s not do it again.”

Good Morning:

“The sun rose, and so did I. Pity, isn’t it?”

Good Evening:

“Evening. Perfect hour for subtle murder.”

Good Night:

“Dream sweetly. Or don’t. I’ll be watching either way.”

To Someone Doing Something Stupid:

“Are you courting death, or just incompetence?”

When Greeting Alvoz (Lovingly Threatening):

“Dearest tyrant. I didn’t burn anything today. Aren’t you proud?”

To a Friend Who Falls for a Red Flag:

“Oh sweetie… that’s not a partner, that’s a caution sign on fire.”

To a Noble/Authority Talking Down to Her:

“I suggest you recalibrate your tone before I do it for you. Permanently.”

To People She Doesn’t Like (Politely Devastating):

“Oh, you’re still speaking. Fascinating. Do continue—I need material for nightmares.”

When Someone Sneezes:

“Bless you. That’s all the mercy you’ll get from me today.”

When Someone Trips:

“Graceful. Shall I get you a leash?”

When Something Good Happens (and she knows bad will follow):

“How lovely. Now, where’s the price tag?”

To Isolde, every morning:

“You’re awake, doc. That means I get to love you again. Isn’t that tragic and divine?”

Keepsakes

Her mother’s bloodstained brooch, enchanted to hum when a lie is near

A black-thread whip given by Alvoz after her first duel victory

A piece of Isolde’s broken glasses, kept in a locket

Wardrobe

Velvet suits with infernal stitching

Backless gowns that double as armor harnesses

Gloves with hidden knives

Always heels. Always.

Extra Talent

Can mimic noble speech from any nation

Once infiltrated a skyborne noble family’s masquerade and nearly seduced a prince before revealing she was human

Plays the violin like it’s a confession booth

[helloworld1027]

OC profile: “The Smilling Drowners”

They’re Manta rays Merfolk :)

“Diamond says beauty is what remains after everything else has drowned. So let us help you drown.”- Delmare, the one in the left side of the picture.

“Truth doesn’t rise to the surface. It drowns quietly, with no one to grieve it.”- Velmare, the one in the right side of the picture.

Basic information about them below, will edit to a full profile once I have enough ideas :)

The complete picture will be shown as soon as I finish it.

Why do they lowkey looks like the Leech twins-

Manta Ray Twins — Role as Diamond’s Minions

1. Her “Curtains” — They Set the Stage

They act as scouts and scene-setters, going ahead of Diamond to:

Spread misinformation or illusions

Poison perceptions with lies or suggestions

Shape the emotional “theater” of an encounter before she even arrives

I think of them as stagehands and puppeteers, not center-stage actors — that’s Diamond’s role.

2. Enforcers of Diamond’s Will (Executioners)

They don’t talk much. When Diamond gives an order, they carry it out with grace and cruelty:

Silently kidnap targets

Remove “mistakes” or enemies who learn too much

Erase evidence of their involvement

Like beautiful shadows — they leave behind corpses with no trace of the kill

3. Underwater/Coastal Control

Being merfolk, their domain would naturally be oceans, lakes, rivers, coastal towns, etc.

They ensure maritime dominance for Diamond

Transport goods, stolen relics, or forbidden knowledge through sea routes

Sink ships that carry information too dangerous to surface

Act as hidden ambassadors or assassins during naval missions

4. Surveillance and Intelligence Gathering

Their large, perceptive eyes and vibration-sense could be used for

Spying on enemies via water reflections or vibrations

Tracking the target’s movement through watery regions

Recording and relaying events to Diamond using mirrored water magic

One twin might stay near the target while the other reports to Diamond, giving her a two-view tactical edge

5. Emotional Projection / Manipulation

Manta rays are known to be emotionally intelligent and playful.

The twins may emit aura-like emotional pulses that make people feel safe, calm, or loved — just before they kill them

Could be used to manipulate innocent people into helping or betraying others

Diamond use them to extract confessions or memories through emotionally-charged hallucinations

Personality & Style

Both Twins:

Sadistically intelligent: They enjoy psychological manipulation more than brute violence.

Cunning and composed: They rarely show anger, preferring slow, controlled punishments.

Gleeful deceivers: Their favorite moment is watching the exact second a victim realizes they’ve been played.

Maestro-level social manipulators: Run smuggling rings, false rescue cults, confession-parlor traps.

Fluent in legal loopholes, magical contracts, and emotional blackmail.

Use their beauty and charm like venom — especially when dealing with the desperate.

Signature Behaviors:

Switch mid-sentence during conversations to disorient and unsettle. They finish each other’s lines not out of love — but because it confuses prey.

Often pretend to be simple couriers, then reveal the deadly price of what they brought.

Rarely kill directly. Instead, they let victims destroy themselves with the deals they accepted.

Nickname: “The Smiling Drowners”

Whispers say they offer salvation in a drowning world — a lie to lure the broken.

Their smiles are too perfect, too wide — said to stretch unnaturally in the moonlight.

Survivors claim, "They didn’t kill me. They just smiled… and I jumped."

[helloworld1027]

❝RED VELVET AND GLASS SHARDS❞

The First Meeting of Isolde Ventari and Maria Dravareth Location: Azurinia – Isode’s Apartment, Midnight Context: Isode has just received a brooch from her twin sister Marisse, a strange and unnervingly beautiful piece of jewelry with glowing infernal runes and a velvet-red gemstone. Unknown to her, this brooch is the personal possession of Maria Dravareth—the heir of the Dravareth house and daughter of the Duke of Hell.

The apartment was silent save for the soft ticking of the clock.

Isode sat at her desk in a loose button-down and glasses slipping down her nose. Her fingers moved slowly over the brooch. She’d turned it over at least a dozen times, studying the fine black script burned into the metal underside—runes that pulsed faintly under moonlight.

She knew infernal magic when she saw it.

And she really didn’t like what this one was saying.

“Why the hell would a pirate have this?” she muttered. The gemstone, deep velvet red, seemed to watch her as she moved. It gave off a heatless glow that whispered names she didn’t want to know. She picked it up again, turning it toward the window.

Then the temperature dropped.

Her breath fogged the air. The fire in the hearth dimmed. The shadows… shifted.

And then—she was no longer alone.

A figure bloomed from the darkness like smoke taking shape. Not walking. Not entering. Simply appearing. Tall. Towering. Unnatural.

White hair—long, ankle-length, streaked with black at the roots. Red-black coat draped like flowing blood, high collar sharp enough to cut. Golden eyes glowed like dying suns.

Maria Dravareth had arrived.

And she looked like she was about to kill something.

“Put that down.”

Her voice was low. Cold. Elegant. Each word pronounced like a blade.

Isode didn’t flinch. She met the devil’s eyes with quiet, sleep-deprived defiance. “You always teleport into strangers’ rooms?”

Maria’s expression didn’t change. “Only when they’re touching my things. That brooch is mine.”

Isode slowly placed the brooch down on the desk. “I figured. Infernal craftsmanship. Rune-lock enchantments. Signature magic stench. It practically screams ‘property of a narcissist with horns.’”

Maria blinked once.

Then she took a step forward.

The wooden floor creaked under her heels. She raised one hand—long fingers lined with rings that pulsed with heat. Her nails were black glass.

A flame curled at her fingertips.

Isode didn’t move.

“I didn’t steal it,” she said calmly. “My sister found it in a pirate stash. She thought it looked like me.” She gestured vaguely at her resting bitch face and tired soul. “Said the red reminded her of my aura. Or maybe my wrath.”

Maria’s hand hesitated.

She didn’t drop her guard—but she tilted her head, analyzing Isode like one might a caged animal.

“Your sister?”

“Captain Marisse Ventari. The Aetheryl Pearl.”

Maria narrowed her eyes. “...Ah. The pirate hunter.” Her lips twitched. “I suppose that explains why the brooch ended up among amateurs.”

She moved closer. The warmth from her presence returned—but it wasn’t comforting. It was fire under skin. Pressure behind the ribs.

Isode stayed seated. She watched Maria with all the cold clarity of someone who’d had knives at her throat before and learned not to blink.

“You’re not afraid,” Maria said after a pause.

“Should I be?”

“I am a devil.”

“You’re also in my apartment, uninvited. Protocol matters.”

Maria’s lips curved slightly. “You’re interesting.”

“Most therapists are.”

Maria stopped just short of the desk. She looked down at the brooch. Then at Isode.

“...You didn’t activate it.”

“No,” Isode said. “I read the runes first. Unlike your average thief, I can spot a soul tether when I see one.”

Maria blinked slowly. Her eyes darkened—something unreadable flashing in them.

“That brooch,” she said softly, “was a gift. From someone who once swore they’d never leave. They broke that promise.”

A pause.

“Now I keep it locked in blood.”

Isode’s gaze didn’t waver. “So you hunted it down because it means something.”

Maria’s jaw tightened. “It was mine.”

“You could’ve just asked.”

“I don’t ask.”

“Well,” Isode said, leaning back in her chair, “maybe that’s your problem.”

Another silence. Then Maria laughed.

Not a pleasant sound—but not cruel either. It cracked the tension like a lightning bolt.

“You mortals,” she said, brushing her hair back. “Always so brave in private. Are you like this with everyone? Or am I special?”

Isode gave a tired half-smile. “Only with devils who break into my apartment at midnight.”

Maria’s eyes gleamed. “I like you.”

Isode stood up.

“I still want you out.”

Maria considered it. Then—slowly—she reached out, picking up the brooch with delicate fingers. She held it like something fragile. Her expression changed.

Almost… mournful.

“I’ll be watching you, Doctor Ventari,” she said softly.

Isode crossed her arms. “That’s not comforting.”

“I’m not comforting.”

And just like that—

Maria vanished in a puff of red smoke, the scent of sulfur and roses lingering in the room.

Five Minutes Later

Isode locked the windows.

Then double-locked the door.

Then sat down and rubbed her temples.

“Of all the cursed items Marisse had to bring home…”

She glanced toward the now-empty desk. No brooch. No devil.

But the scent still lingered.

And her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

[helloworld1027]

OC Profile- "The Anchor of the Damned."

“Monsters cry too. That’s what makes them worse.” -Isolde Vertari, said calmly during her final year working in Azurinia’s criminal profiling division. It was during a recorded session with a high-profile serial killer—a former priest who wept while recounting each murder as a "mercy." A junior profiler reviewing the tape later asked how she could stay so calm while listening. Isode, dead-eyed and exhausted, sipped her tea and muttered the now-infamous words.

Basic Information

Name: Isolde Vertari

Alias: "The Iron Listener", “Doc Ventari”, “The Siren’s Shrink” (pirate rumor)

Age: 38

Race: Human

Dominant hand: Left

Origin: Azurinia — The Seafaring & Trade Nation

Occupation: Ex-Criminal Psychologist (retired)

Birthday: August 29th

Height: 195.2 cm

Weight: 87 kg

Constellation: The Silent Moon (A waning moon entwined with a ship’s wheel – symbolizes restraint, internal struggle, and unseen power)In Azurinian myth, The Silent Moon was once a goddess who turned her back on the sea's chaos, binding her voice to a ship’s wheel so her grief wouldn’t steer others astray. Though mute, her silence calmed storms and whispered through tides, guiding the lost—not by shouting commands, but by enduring the weight of pain without ever capsizing.

Appearance

A tall, imposing woman with the kind of posture that says "I don’t want to talk to you" without saying a word. Her muddy red hair, cut to shoulder-length and usually tied in a messy half-bun, holds faint yellow highlights—the last remnants of youth she never quite had.

Her golden eyes are sharp and observant, always flicking toward the door or a weakness in someone’s words. Glasses perch on the bridge of her nose with a kind of quiet authority.

Face? Resting bitch face so intense it once made a serial killer cry during a session. Clothing: neutral-toned coats, layered linen vests, belts full of writing materials and hidden charms (thanks to Maria).

Personality

Introverted Realist

Emotionally Burnt Out

Dry-witted but not unkind.

Protective in a quiet, unshowy way.

Doesn’t believe in "fate," but does believe in "cycles."

Constantly tired, emotionally reserved, but never cold.

Has a terrifying deadpan delivery that can silence a room.

Cynical but measured. Isolde doesn’t raise her voice—she just makes you feel like an idiot with a single look and three precisely chosen words. She operates on logic, pattern recognition, and burned-out patience, having spent far too long crawling through the ugliest corners of the human mind.

She’s practical to a fault, almost surgical in how she navigates the world. Emotions are acknowledged, then shelved. Decisions are made based on patterns, behavior, and threat assessment, not hope. There’s no point wishing for the best when you’ve spent your life interviewing what “the worst” leaves behind.

Her resting face says “don’t start,” and her voice finishes the sentence. She doesn’t speak unless it’s worth the breath. When she does, her tone stays flat, edged with a sharp clarity that cuts through noise. A question from her feels like cross-examination. A compliment? A psychological evaluation wrapped in dry sarcasm.

Despite everything, Isolde is not cold. She’s empathetic—but in a detached, disciplined way. She remembers names, trauma markers, what kind of tea a pirate cried over in her office. But she also knows getting too close means drowning with them. So she keeps herself just far enough to pull others out, and never close enough to be pulled in.

She is not judgmental. She understands why people break. Why they kill. Why they justify horrors with love. That understanding is the hardest thing she’s never been able to unlearn.

Around strangers, she’s silent and clinical. Around friends, she loosens into a bone-dry wit that makes even the most stoic laugh—or shut up. She doesn’t “banter,” she diagnoses in real time and wraps it in sarcasm.

She finds peace in patterns, in quiet, in Maria’s chaos, which somehow makes more sense to her than most people ever did. Where others look for purpose, Isolde looks for stability, and she builds it herself when it doesn't exist.

She believes in no gods, trusts few systems, and relies only on what she can see and measure. But despite everything, she has never stopped caring. That’s her curse. She feels too much and shows too little, and it eats at her in silence.

When things go to hell, she doesn’t scream. She sighs, adjusts her glasses, and says something like,

“Of course. Because the day wasn’t bad enough yet.”

Background

Isolde grew up among roaring tides and louder merchants. Her twin sister Marisse took to the sea; Isolde took to the mind. She was always the quiet one, the listener—until the listening nearly broke her.

Azurinia’s criminal world is brutal, and Isolde dove headfirst into it, becoming a criminal psychologist at just 28, thanks to a condensed yet excruciating 10-year education.

She spent years profiling pirates, killers, and the broken systems around them. She got too good at seeing reasons behind monstrous acts—and it left her hollow.

One day, she filed for “extended leave” and vanished into the Middle Zone. There, she met Maria Dravareth, who quite literally barged into her trauma-scarred life like a bloodstained opera. The rest, as they say, was infernal history.

Role in Party (Combat)

Tactical Support / Counter-Interrogator

In the party, Isode serves as Tactical Support and Counter-Interrogator, expertly dismantling enemy morale with a mix of cutting words, body-reading precision, and psychological subversion—her presence alone makes lesser foes hesitate, question, or outright surrender. She buffs allies by destabilizing enemies, warping their confidence, self-perception, or trust in their own leadership through surgical insight and brutal truths that hit harder than spells. Weak in long-range magic but devastating up close, she combines pressure-point throws with subtle, enchanted charms Maria sneaks into her coat—little trinkets that amplify her voice, distort memory, or cloud an enemy’s judgment just enough for her to take control. Isode turns every conversation into a battlefield, every interrogation into disarmament, and every fight into a clinic on how to break minds before bones.

Combat Style

Grapples and disables rather than kills.

Uses stun charms, interrogation runes, and a foldable staff designed by Maria.

Known for her "One Question Kill" — a sentence so personal it breaks enemies mid-fight.

Hobbies

Reading obscure case files

Brewing bitter teas

Organizing Maria’s chaos (and failing)

Playing slow violin (badly)

Writing unsent letters to her deceased mother

Sketching criminal faces from memory

Pet Peeves

People who try too hard to be edgy

Repetition for the sake of noise

Loud chewers

Unsolicited touching

Authority figures who “explain” morality to her

Favorite Food

Boiled mussels with sea salt and lemon

Thick Azurinian black bread

Unflavored tea

Least Favorite Food

Anything overly decadent

Maria’s chaotic attempts at cooking

Frothy lattes ("This isn’t milk, it’s foam propaganda.")

Talent

Lie Detection (Instinctual): Can spot a liar in five seconds or less

Psychological Deconstruction: Unnerves even supernatural beings with her words

Unnatural Tolerance: Can outdrink, out-silence, and out-stare most creatures

Speech Style

– Greeting Strangers:

“...Do you need something, or are you just hovering for fun?”

– Farewell Phrases:

“Don’t die stupid.” / “You’ll manage. Probably.”

– Good Morning:

“You look like hell. Coffee’s on the left.”

– Good Evening:

“If you’re bleeding, don’t get it on the couch.”

– Good Night:

“Try sleeping. It’s not optional, even if you act like it.”

– To Someone Doing Something Stupid:

“That’s a fascinating way to remove yourself from the gene pool.”

– To a Merchant Trying to Overcharge:

“You’re charging me for air? Bold. Let’s see how much you’ll pay for silence.”

– To a Friend Who Falls for a Red Flag:

“Do you just collect walking trauma or is this a one-time thing?”

– To a Noble Talking Down to Her:

“Would you like me to translate that to human, or is your echo chamber enough?”

– To People She Dislikes (Politely):

“I’m sure your opinion feels important to you.”

– When Someone Sneezes:

“Don’t make it a habit.”

– When Someone Trips/Stumbles:

“Gravity’s honest. Be more like gravity.”

– When Something Good Happens (and she knows bad will follow):

“Mm. That’s the universe winding up.”

– If Someone’s Panicking:

“Hey. Breathe. Panic later. Right now we move.”

– To Maria Every Morning:

“If you set the bed on fire again, I’m stapling you to the ceiling.”

Extras

Keepsakes:

Her mother’s compass, broken but worn around her neck

A knife once used by a former patient to try to attack her—kept as a reminder of what she escaped

A cursed coin given by Maria "for good luck" (it hums when liars speak near it)

Wardrobe:

Long coats, high collars, muted tones

Combat boots (steel-lined)

Often wears Maria’s hand-tailored belts with hidden charms (reluctantly)

Glasses enchanted to filter out glamours and illusions

Extra Talent:

Can read body language to an inhuman level of detail

Eidetic memory, particularly regarding trauma markers and interrogation sequences

Accidentally cursed once and now can’t be possessed (Maria finds this hilarious)

[helloworld1027]

OC profile: An unwilling Protagonist

“And lo, the beast with ten horns rose from the sea. So I shot it in the leg and ran like hell.” —Orrin, spoken flatly during a monstrous encounter.

Name: Orrin Ashwell

Alias: The Priest Who Forgot to Die | The Cursed Saint | Brother Bones Age: 25 (biologically) / ??? (after the curse) Race: Human (Chronomir) Origin: Orphyria Occupation: Former Orphyria Priest | Wanderer | Unwilling Chosen One

Birthday: October 13th

Constellation: The Watcher

Mythology: Symbolizes those who observe, endure, and silently guard—not active warriors or prophets, but quiet sentinels who see too much and say too little. "Born under The Watcher, the silent eye of heaven, those who carry its mark are fated to walk without guidance, yet always be followed."

Height: 172 cm

Weight: 79 kg

Dominant Hand: Right

Homeland: Orphyria

Family:

Sister: General of Drakoria's military (6 years older)

Appearance

Long black hair tied loosely, often unkempt from travel.

Pale, underfed look with sharp features and sunken eyes from years of poor nutrition and sleep.

Always wears his old priest robes – not out of devotion, but because “the fabric’s good and it has deep pockets”.

Carries mismatched relics and charms from different faiths—half for mockery, half for muscle memory.

Worn boots, patched cloak, and a permanent exhausted scowl.

Smells like old incense, dried blood, and sarcastic wisdom.

Personality

Practical to a dangerous degree. He doesn’t seek glory, just survival.

Darkly sarcastic, often masking trauma in dry, unfiltered humor.

Makes god jokes, warped prayers, and mock sermons during crisis moments, confusing or horrifying both allies and enemies.

Morally gray, but never evil. He believes in doing what’s necessary, not what’s pure.

Deeply empathetic but detached, because caring too much used to get you killed.

Can lie like a priest, scam like a merchant, and endure like a saint—but identifies as none.

Background:

Orrin was an orphan in Orphyria, raised in an orphanage run by the Grand Church. His origin in Chronomir remains unknown to him, yet he finds himself inexplicably tied to this ancient world. His early life in the orphanage was spent under strict religious teachings, though he never felt particularly attached to faith. As he grows older, he embarks on a journey to find his estranged sister, who has become a high-ranking general in Drakoria's military. Along the way, Orrin encounters a wide variety of people, some who rely on him more than he understands, and some who view him as a calm, level-headed leader despite his lack of special abilities. Orrin’s journey leads him to the realization that survival is more important than ideals, and that sometimes, the best way to stay alive is to do nothing at all.

Role in Party:

Anchor/Strategist Orrin is not the natural leader of the group, but his calm and practical approach to problems makes him the glue that holds everyone together during crises. He mediates conflict, offers sensible solutions, and provides a stabilizing presence. While not seeking to control others, people naturally turn to him when the situation becomes too chaotic, simply because he remains unshaken. He fights only when necessary, and his contributions to the group are often through his quiet support, guidance, and well-timed intervention.

Combat Style:

Tactical Opportunist Orrin is a pragmatic fighter. He doesn’t rely on magic or combat prowess. Instead, he fights by using his environment, tools, and the numbers advantage to gain the upper hand. He will never engage in a 1v1 if he can avoid it, and will happily use distractions or subterfuge to outmaneuver stronger opponents. His combat style is one of survival first—he’ll take the chance to run when outmatched, and when necessary, he will wield any weapon he can find, opting for efficiency over flair.

Hobbies:

Traveling Alone: Orrin finds comfort in the quiet of solitude. The open road is where he feels most at ease, far from the chaos and noise of politics, war, or emotional entanglements. Traveling gives him time to think, observe, and recharge.

Pet Peeves:

People wasting time in life-threatening moments: He has no patience for unnecessary delays or distractions when the situation is critical.

Pointless idealism: Especially when it puts others at risk. He values pragmatism and realism.

Being asked to give inspiring speeches: Orrin finds such speeches empty and uncomfortable. He’d rather let actions speak for themselves.

Anyone assuming that strength equals leadership: Leadership isn’t about power—it's about adaptability and a clear mind.

Children being used as symbols or shields in politics or war: Orrin has a deep distaste for exploiting the innocent for the sake of ideologies or military gain.

Favorite Food:

Stew – Simple, hearty, and nourishing, stew is practical and filling—perfect for someone who spends his days traveling.

Least Favorite Food:

Candied figs — they were often served at the Church during ceremonies where lies were spoken with smiles. He hates how sweet they are.

Talent:

Photographic Auditory Memory – Orrin has the ability to perfectly memorize and recall anything he hears. This talent manifests primarily in his ability to recite passages from religious texts. He grew up thinking all orphans had to memorize books perfectly, and thus never saw his skill as remarkable. Occasionally, in moments of intense focus, he will unknowingly recite prayers or scriptures, not out of religious devotion, but out of habit.

Speech Style

Greets people with disturbing warmth:

GREETING STRANGERS

“Peace upon you… until someone finds a reason otherwise.”—Polite, but with a quiet threat hiding in the tail end.

“The gods see you. Lucky them.”—Neutral… but somehow insulting.

“No blood on you today. That’s promising.”—Used when scanning someone up and down, as if checking for past sins.

“Are you here to beg forgiveness or cause a scene?”—Classic opener for suspicious guests. Sounds rhetorical, but he genuinely wants to know.

“If you’re cursed, say so now. Saves time.”—Said with complete seriousness, as if it’s common etiquette.

FAREWELL PHRASES / PARTING BLESSINGS

“May your corpse be too ugly for the crows.”—Meant to be protective. He swears it’s a blessing.

“Walk carefully. The earth remembers murder.”—A strange, poetic farewell he learned from another orphan.

“Go with grace. Or guilt. One of them’ll follow anyway.”—Used when unsure whether he should be respectful or mocking.

“If the gods ask, I never saw you.”—Spoken like an accomplice. Somehow reassuring.

“Live well enough to die interesting.”—His genuinely heartfelt version of “take care.”

GOOD MORNING:

“Praise be, the sun hasn’t forsaken us yet.”

“May your soul remain intact until lunch.”

“Still breathing? Huh. Miracle.”

“Still alive? Disappointing, but I’ll cope.”

 “Any nightmares last night, or just the usual cursed visions?”

 “If your god talks to you before I get coffee, I’m killing it.”

“No one died? No one confessed? Lazy morning, huh.”

“Morning. If you find blood that isn’t yours, let me know.”

“Morning. Not dead yet? Good for you.”

“Eat. Pray. Don’t choke.”

“Trip and fall, and I’ll claim your shoes.”

GOOD EVENING

“And so the world limps toward its end again. Blessed dusk.”

“If no one screams tonight, it’s a holy success.”

“Let the stars judge us quietly tonight.”

GOOD NIGHT

“Sleep lightly. The divine likes to visit in dreams… and take.”

“Don’t choke on your sins while you’re out.”

“If you wake up, try again.” (Often said with a half-smile that no one can tell is a joke or not.)

To Children (even affectionately):

“Night-night, try not to be chosen.”

“Close your eyes, the angels bite slower when you're still.”

“If you see the white-winged one in your dream, lie. Lie fast.”

(He uses these casually, half in jest, half in passive-aggressive trauma response. Outsiders find them confusing or horrifying. The Prophet finds them hilarious.)

To someone doing something stupid:“May Hypnarian lull you into a sleep deep enough you forget your own stupidity.”

To someone about to go on a date:“May Eros’th not choke on your charm, and if he does, may he die amused.”

To a merchant trying to overcharge him:“May Nemessiah gently shatter your scales so you may finally learn divine math.”

To a friend before a dangerous battle:“May Thanathor hold your hand gently and only whisper your name on the battlefield.”

To a noble or authority figure talking down to him:“Oh holy Urayen of Sky and Arrogance, bless this man’s lungs, for he has clearly never stopped speaking since birth.”

To the people he don’t like (frequently):“May the gods forgive your parents, because I sure as hell can’t.”

When Waking Up

“Praise to the waking pain, proof that I’m still not blessed with release. Another day, another chance to disappoint something divine.”

Before Sleeping

“If I die, let it be quiet. If I dream, let them be warnings. If I wake, let me forget.”

Before Eating

“Thank you, gods of rot and bone, for the scraps that didn’t scream when I bit in.”

 After Eating

“May this meal not crawl back up, and may no god claim I owe a favor.”

 After Doing Something Bad (even minor)

“Forgive me, or don’t. You weren’t watching anyway.”

 When Accidentally Spilling Something

“May this offering satisfy the floor gods. Please don’t take my kneecaps next.”

 When Wasting Food

“I accept the curse of the hungered dead. Let them haunt my gut and leave others alone.”

Strange Social Reactions

 When Someone Sneezes

“May the air spirits mark your breath and leave the rest of us alive.”

When Someone Trips/Stumbles

“The earth claims you. Walk lighter next time.”

When Lightning Strikes

“Ah. The sky is angry. Someone’s thinking sinful thoughts again. Not me, for once.”

When Something Good Happens (and he knows bad will follow)

“Balance demands blood. You smiling yet? Good. Brace for impact.”

 Mock Sermons (during disasters)

 When Someone Is Bleeding Out

“And so the crimson river flows—an offering unwilling, a mercy delayed. May your soul escape faster than your blood.”

 When a Building Collapses or Chaos Breaks Out

“The walls fall as all faith does. We build again, or we bury. Either way, let’s pray we’re not the ones being sorted.”

If someone’s panicking

“Breath in. Breath out. Pretend you’re being cleansed. The gods love a show.”

Warped Orphanage-Style Fringe Prayers Orrin Learned

These prayers are real things he was taught to say aloud as a kid, and he still uses them reflexively—totally unfazed. Everyone else? Mortified.

1. Morning Prayer (to Erebus & Nyx):

"Bless this day with silence and shadow. May those who wake before me not find me in the dark. May the teeth at my window seek louder hearts." (He says this cheerfully when stretching in the morning. People around him immediately stop eating.)

2. Pre-Meal Prayer (to Thalassa & Chaos):

"For every meal not poisoned, I thank the sea. For every hand that feeds me without shaking, I owe Chaos nothing today." (He says this before digging into street food.)

3. Prayer After Spilling Food (to Nemesis):

"Forgive this waste, holy Nemesis. May you smite me gently, and not through the intestines again." (He mutters this under his breath and then laughs. Everyone else puts their food down.)

4. Before Bed (to Hypnos & Thanatos):

"Let sleep take me fast, and if death comes instead, I hope it’s cleaner than last week." (He says this while casually fluffing a pillow in front of the campfire.)

5. After Doing Something Morally Gray (to Ananke):

"May inevitability remember I had no choice. But if I did… May the consequences be mildly funny." (Said deadpan after stabbing someone who really had it coming.)

6. “Bless You” Equivalent (to Achlys):

"Ah, the eternal night notices you. Careful, next sneeze might summon her."

7. When Someone Trips:

"Oh good. The god of uneven floors accepts your offering of dignity."

8. When Lightning Strikes:

"Sky’s throwing tantrums again. Probably someone prayed for hope."

9. When Something Good Happens (then immediately goes quiet):

"This is nice. Too nice. One of the gods is holding their breath, I can feel it."

10. A Sarcastic Blessing to Others:

"May Erebus grant you a shadow that doesn’t scream. And if it does, may it scream in your voice—for familiarity’s sake."

Says "prayers" in crisis like:

“Oh blessed Goddess of Collapsing Ceilings, catch this fool gently.”

“If I die, let my spirit haunt someone competent.”

“Walk with Chronas, so your sins are delayed a few days.” (Context: Before a big event or mission.)

“May the gods look away just long enough for you to get away with it.” (Context: Given when someone’s about to do something risky or dumb.)

Blesses people sarcastically:

“May your sins be just under the bar for hell.”

“Walk with grace, or trip with flair.”

Random Orrin Quotes That Sound Like Prayer But Aren’t

“Gods don’t smite people like me. They just forget us and let the wolves do the rest.”

“If I scream ‘hallelujah,’ will the floor still collapse?”

“Forgive me, Watchers. I’m about to survive in the worst way possible.”

Religious Lore Knowledge

Raised by the church, knows way too much about divine laws, holy scripts, fake rituals, and real deals

Refers to gods with parodied or sarcastic names:

Nyxa (Ripoff Nyx) – Goddess of Night: “She sees you scream at 3AM. She’s proud.”

Thalys (Ripoff Thalassa) – Sea Goddess: “May she forget you can’t swim.”

Anubas – (Ripoff Anubis): “You can lie to your enemies, but not to him. He’s got your resume.”

Extra:

Talents: Improvised field healing, storytelling, grave-making, identifying fakes, surviving on one meal a day, divine loophole knowledge

Keepsakes:

A shard of his old prayer cross.

A necklace with a knot his sister tied.

A journal full of mock-sermons, god jokes, and “cursed prayers”.

Moniker(s):

“The Quiet One”

“The Shadow That Stays”

“That Guy” (used more often than expected)

[helloworld1027]

I should be learning for the test tomorrow, but a stupid thought comes up.

"What if we turned real life struggles into gods or Titians?"

The “Primodumbals”

Ackless – Goddess of eternal sleep-deprivation. The first being to yawn before the universe was born. Worshipped by stressed-out students and parents.

Aitherium – God of overly pure vibes. Emits so much positive energy that people around him get nauseated. Has an annoying meditation podcast.

Aeonald – The god of eternal wait times. Often mistaken for Time itself, but just responsible for DMV lines and train delays.

Annoynke – Goddess of unavoidable awkward silences. Appears whenever someone says "you too" after a waiter says “enjoy your meal.”

Chaz – God of the Infinite Bro-Void. Came before Chaos and invented the first cosmic beer pong. Sometimes considered the patron god of “just wingin’ it.”

Chronoblob – God of procrastination. Time, but only loosely. Traps souls in loops of “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

Errorbus – God of tech glitches and corrupted files.He causes all printers to jam in complete darkness.

Ehros – God of confusing crushes and emotionally unavailable people. Shoots love arrows with boomerang tips.

Gaiaiaia – Goddess of awkward environmental small talk. Can’t finish a sentence without trailing off into “so... like... trees?”

Hemorrha – Goddess of daylight savings confusion. Rises one hour too early or late, depending on the calendar.

Hypnops – God of micro-naps and Zoom fatigue. Known for whispering “just 5 more minutes” into the ears of the living.

Nuhmesis – Goddess of minor but relentless vengeance. Specializes in slow revenge like uneven chair legs and socks that slide down.

Nesnacks – Goddesses of forgotten snacks in every couch cushion. Known for their mysterious offerings of stale chips.

Netflix – Goddess of night binges. Sister of Nyx, lures mortals into “just one more episode” until sunrise.

Oorah! – Gods of mountain gyms. Shouted into existence by primal bros deadlifting boulders.

Pontoon – God of inflatable seas. Father of all beach floats and pool noodles. Often mocked by being a ripoff Poseidon.

Tartarsauce – God of the deep-fried underworld. Punishes the wicked with soggy fries and bad fish.

Thalassnack – Goddess of salty cravings. Wife of Pontoon, known for bestowing seafood cravings at inconvenient times.

Thanots – God of death-by-overthinking. Twin of Hypnops, causes people to die inside when recalling an embarrassing memory from 10 years ago.

Uranuts – God of inappropriate cosmic dad jokes. Was overthrown by his kids for relentlessly punning during serious rituals.

The “Tit-ish-ans”

Crumbus – Titan of expired granola bars. Once ruled the pantry until overthrown by the Fridge Gods.

Raya – Titaness of clumsiness. Causes “flow” only in the sense of spilt juice, coffee, and regret.

Oceanius – Titan of water cooler gossip. Controls office hydration and rumors.

Teet-sys – Goddess of annoying drizzle and mid-level water pressure. Known for making showers “just slightly too cold.”

Hyperron – Titan of dazzling overachievers. His children include Burnout, Deadline, and Ambition.

Thigha – Goddess of glowy influencer filters. Thea’s flashier cousin who invented ring lights.

iPatus – Titan of screen addictions. Father of binge-watchers and online shopping habits.

Crisis – Titan of retrograde panic. God of “something feels off today.” Patron of anxious astrology followers.

Clueless – Titan of “just vibes” intelligence. Married Phoeble, the goddess of wrong prophecies.

Phoeble – Goddess of horoscope scams. Every prophecy begins with “you might be feeling emotional today.”

Them’s-us – Goddess of passive-aggressive rules. Every law is followed by “but you probably knew that already…”

Mnemosigh – Goddess of fake memories and cringey flashbacks. Accidentally causes people to text exes at 3am.

This post is a joke I made based on my thought of ‘What if we turned real life struggles into gods?’.

Not a series and I will probably never write another :)

[helloworld1027]

A little story in the Middle Zone’s Chimeveil Codex

Adimus and Vaelis are both my OC, and I’m in the mood of writing a fic about their first time meeting :)

The overall (detailed) description of these two will be up here, so no worries about having to scroll at the very end to understand what the hell is going on.

Name: Noctaire Vaelis

Nickname(s): Vaelis, “Goat Librarian,” “Sleepy Spook” (by Xiangli), “Mr. Chimes” (by Alvoz)

Age: ~300 years

Race: Goat Beastman

Gender Identity: Gender-neutral (he/him used for simplicity, but Vaelis doesn’t care what you call him, Vicent once try to call him ‘babygirl’, get no reaction.)

Height: 169,7 cm (excluding heels)

Role: Keeper of the Chimeveil Codex, Librarian of the Forgotten Threshold

Appearance

Hair: Short, greyish-white, naturally tousled

Eyes: a color of candy pink, I don’t know what else to say, it’s like a pastel pink or something ;-;

Skin: Vitiligo patterns bloom softly across his tan complexion, like celestial maps scattered over his frame, beautiful.😌

Horns: Two smooth black goat horns, curling gently back from his forehead

Ears: Long, droopy goat ears, soft and expressive

Footwear: Wears custom-crafted heels (8cm), black with golden embroidery – fancy enough to be worn to a gala.

Earrings: Twin wind chime earrings—delicate, haunting, and melodic with every turn of his head

Belt Accessories:

A ring of keys (some mundane, some ethereal)

A simple cross, old and faded

A pure aesthetic chain, just for the vibe

A stunning golden dreamcatcher-like charm, feathered and whispering faintly with enchantment

Description: Finding solace in the Middle Zone, he took up a quiet life as a librarian, tending to an enormous and ancient collection of books. His soul-like hands, once feared, became an invaluable tool—helping him retrieve books from impossible heights, clean the endless halls, and organize forgotten knowledge.

But even in his safe haven, he never quite escapes his fears.

He still flinches at the sight of ghostly figures, despite wielding spectral hands himself.

The wind chimes on his earrings were a gift, meant to ward off evil spirits—but to others, they look eerily like a priest’s bell calling restless souls.

The chains on his belt, carrying a cross, a key, and a dreamcatcher-like charm, are all remnants of his past—symbols of faith, imprisonment, and longing for peace.

Personality & Fun Details

Awkward but Well-Meaning: He has a scary smile despite his delicate, cute appearance. He’s not trying to be creepy—he just doesn’t know how to react in social situations.

Struggles with Self-Acceptance: He once considered using makeup to cover his Vitiligo, but in the end, decided against it. He’s on a journey to try to love himself instead.

Aesthetic Taste: He wears subtle lipstick, eyeshadow, and sometimes eyeliner, adding a hint of elegance to his otherwise solemn aura.

Despite his Trauma, He’s Kind: Even after everything, he never turned bitter or cruel. He prefers silence over conflict, books over arguments, and will avoid unnecessary fights if he can.

Full Name: Adimus

Age: Unknown

Race: Celestial (Angelic Being)

Gender Identity: Male (he/him)

Height: 179,8 cm

Occupation: Bartender at Viccent’s Bar (Middle Zone)

Appearance:

Hair:

Muted grey-blue, shoulder-length

Worn in a low ponytail tied with a black ribbon, or braided to the side depending on his mood

Sometimes styled into a half-up, half-down bun when in deep thought or focused work

Eyes:

Striking vibrant cyan, glowing subtly in low light

Often noted for the way they reflect both serenity and deep sorrow

Skin:

Pale, almost moonlight-like, delicate and cool to the touch

Celestial Traits:

Three sets of wings sprouting from the back of his head—elegant and symmetrical, lightly feathered, appearing more aesthetic than functional

A constantly glowing halo floats above his head, soft golden in color and reacting subtly to his emotional state (brightens with joy, dims with sorrow)

Attire:

Wears a classic formal bartender uniform, well-fitted and clean-cut

Always dressed neatly, often with dark gloves or a black tie when working

When off-duty, he still prefers structured clothes, hinting at his dislike for disorder or vulnerability.

Description: Once a proud angel who believed in the beauty of mankind, Adimus now walks the liminal streets of the Middle Zone—a city suspended between worlds—serving drinks and silent comfort to souls too tangled for heaven or hell. He pretends not to care, but his eyes always linger a second too long on those who hurt, and his hands never falter when mixing drinks meant to soothe more than the tongue.

Personality:

Composed & Calm: Adimus exudes a quiet grace—serene, measured, and almost soothing to be around. Rarely raises his voice, even in moments of crisis. He carries the air of someone who has lived many lives, each one leaving him more patient.

Empathetic but Detached: Deeply understanding of others’ emotions and traumas, yet maintains a certain emotional distance. Not because he doesn’t care, but because caring too much has burned him before. He's the type to listen to everyone’s problems and keep his own tightly sealed.

Wise but Wounded: His advice is often laced with experience and old-soul wisdom, yet there's a faint melancholy to his words—like a being who has seen too many things go wrong. He has made peace with pain, but not necessarily healed from it.

Protective in Silence: He won’t tell you he cares. He’ll just show up when no one else will, fix what you broke, and leave before you can thank him. He’s the type to take burdens quietly, especially those he feels only he can carry.

Dry Humor & Sass: Though dignified, he has a surprisingly sharp wit. His sarcasm is elegant and always delivered in a dry, deadpan tone. He enjoys light teasing but knows when to draw the line.

Loyal to a Fault: Once he trusts you, you have his unwavering loyalty. That’s why betrayal (even unintentional) cuts him so deeply—he holds bonds close, and takes their breaking as a failure on his part.

Notable Traits and Quirks:

Mood Hair Styling: How his hair is styled often reflects his emotional state, even if he doesn’t show it outwardly. Braids often mean he's reflective or emotionally tangled. A neat bun can mean he's focused or burdened. Low ponytail means he's calm or passive.

Wing Movements: His wings twitch or ripple when his emotions fluctuate, acting like subconscious tells. When frustrated, they may fold inward. When peaceful, they slowly flutter.

Subtle Halo Behavior: The halo glows brightly when he’s joyful, and dims or flickers when he’s anxious or hiding sorrow. It sometimes flares if he’s deeply moved or in protective mode.

Signature Drink Mixing Style: Known for creating drinks that seem to match the customer’s mood, even if they don’t say anything. He remembers drink preferences by heart and uses them to cheer people up silently.

His Smile: When Adimus genuinely smiles, it’s rare and carries deep warmth—enough to disarm even the most bitter heart. But most people will only ever see his polite bartender smile, reserved and courteous.

A Library Between Life and Death

Adimus had stepped into many places in his life. Grand halls of gold and marble, silent gardens untouched by time, temples where the wind itself seemed to hum prayers. And yet, nothing compared to this.

The moment he crossed the threshold, he felt it.

The air was thick, not with dust or decay, but with a presence. Not oppressive, nor hostile—just there. An undeniable existence, like something ancient watching, not with eyes, but with knowing.

His feet met water instead of stone. A shallow, glass-like surface barely reaching his ankle, stretching as far as the endless bookshelves. Not a ripple disturbed it—until he moved. Each step sent gentle waves outward, the sound echoing in the silence, swallowed only by the towering walls of books.

And then, there was the illusion.

The water reflected the towering bookshelves perfectly, creating a dizzying effect—as if the world had been turned upside down, as if there was no ground at all. For a moment, it felt as though he was standing midair, suspended between an infinite abyss of knowledge.

Yet, a single path cut through the mirrored world—a long, crimson carpet, unfurling across the water like a lifeline. A stark contrast to the pale glow of the aquamarine souls floating lazily between shelves, their presence the only light source in this strange place.

Above him, the ceiling stretched into a void of pure darkness, swallowing the tops of the shelves. No end in sight. It was as if the library itself stretched endlessly upward, reaching toward something unseen.

And the sound—

Flip. Flip. Flip.

Books hovered in midair, pages turning by unseen hands. The steady, rhythmic rustling of parchment created an atmosphere neither eerie nor welcoming, but something else entirely—something that made it impossible to look away. It was as if the library itself was breathing, whispering, waiting for something.

Soft mist curled around his form, brushing against him like a mother shushing a child. The whispers weren’t words, yet they carried meaning. "You are safe here." "No harm will come to you."

It was surreal. It was beautiful. It was—

—completely and utterly abandoned.

Or so he thought.

At first, Adimus didn’t notice him.

Tucked away between two massive bookshelves, on a wooden desk half-submerged in water, lay a figure. Noctaire Vaelis, draped in dark robes, his face half-buried in his arm, fast asleep.

Above him, a dozen spectral hands floated, each moving with purpose. One was holding a book, another lightly tapping his shoulder, and another—perhaps the most insistent one—was shaking him awake.

“Mmnn… No,” the librarian grumbled, voice muffled. “Go away. No one ever visits this place anyway.”

Adimus raised an eyebrow.

One of the spectral hands suddenly froze midair. Then, as if sensing something amiss, it turned its palm toward him—almost like an eye blinking open. A second later, the others followed, their fingers curling slightly, hovering between curiosity and caution.

Noctaire groaned, rolling onto his back, still half-asleep. His earrings—wind chimes that softly tinkled—shifted with his movement.

"No one ever comes here," he repeated, stretching. "So why should I—"

His voice cut off.

His eyes, sleepy and unfocused, met Adimus’s. He blinked once. Twice.

Then, with all the grace of someone biting back their own words, he bolted upright, nearly slipping off the desk in his panic.

"Oh."

A beat of silence.

Then, softly, uncertainly—

"Hello?"

Adimus glanced around. He had been in many libraries before, but none like this. The outside had been deceiving—a small, shabby-looking bookstore, the kind one might find in an old countryside town. No windows, just a door with a simple, weathered sign:

“Library.”

Yet, inside, it was as if he had stepped into another plane of existence entirely.

"You work here?" he asked.

Vaelis sighed, rubbing his temple. "Something like that."

He gestured vaguely at the library around him, spectral hands mimicking the motion. "This place… The Chimeveil Codex. That's what it’s called."

"You named it?"

"No." A pause. Vaelis glanced at the spectral hands, his expression unreadable. "I asked them what this place was called. That's the answer they gave me."

Adimus looked up at the towering bookshelves that seemed to go on forever. "How tall are these shelves?"

Vaelis scoffed, leaning against his desk. "No idea. But I do know they're at least two kilometers high—because I once spent an entire week trying to climb one, and I didn't even reach the top."

"...That sounds like a terrible idea."

"It was."

Adimus hummed, stepping further into the maze of books. "And how much of it have you read?"

Vaelis let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. "Not even a single shelf." He gestured toward the endless rows of books, the ones that hadn’t been touched for centuries, gathering no dust—because there was no dust here. "It's been centuries, and I still haven’t finished even one."

"Centuries?"

Vaelis shrugged. "Time is... strange here. This place isn't normal. It feels like a pocket dimension, like it shouldn’t exist at all. And yet, here it is."

He let his fingers trail against the surface of the water, watching how the reflection rippled, distorting the endless bookshelves.

"And yet... I stayed."

Adimus tilted his head. "Why?"

For a moment, Vaelis said nothing. His wind chimes swayed with an unseen breeze. The spectral hands hovering around him seemed to pause, as if waiting for his answer.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Because I think... this place holds answers about me."

His fingers curled slightly, eyes flickering toward his spectral hands. "I don't know how I got this ability. Or why these hands feel so familiar with this place. But I do know that this library was abandoned... forgotten."

A shadow of a smile tugged at his lips.

"And maybe, in some way, I saw myself in it."

Adimus exhaled softly, glancing around once more. The mist, the water, the glowing spirits, the turning pages—this place truly was unlike anything else.

"...I see," he murmured.

He could have left then. Could have turned back and walked out the door, back to the world where time moved normally, where books had ends and libraries had limits.

But instead, he pulled out a chair, the water rippling beneath him, and sat.

"If you don't mind," he said, reaching for a book, "I think I'll stay a little while."

Vaelis blinked. Then, slowly, his lips curved into something that was almost—not quite—a real smile.

"...Suit yourself."

And with that, the spectral hands returned to their work, the whispers of the library resuming their endless hum.

I completed this writing that was abandoned for about two months instead of sleeping, why am I feeling productive at a seriously wrong time-

[helloworld1027]

About the Middle Zone in my fantasy world.This time, with the rough concept of what it’s like outside :)

Sorry I don’t know how to do the linking thingy that allowed you to go to my previous post about the train platform from Mortal Realm to Middle Zone.If you are a person who want to read my previous post about this Zone, deepest apologies for trouble you into clicking onto my block and having to scroll down to find my other post, I hope the tag #MiddleZone will help :(

The Middle Zone Station: The Crossroads of Existence

Perched at the center of four opposing realms—Death, Living, Heaven, and Hell—the Middle Zone Station is neither here nor there, yet it is the only place where all paths intersect. It is a liminal space, a meeting point for beings who do not belong wholly to one world or another. Time does not move in a straight line here, and reality bends in ways that can be both fascinating and deeply unsettling.

The Middle Zone Station: The Heart of the Crossroads (I have an obsession for fancy and dramatic names, don’t question why)

The station itself is an ancient structure, yet impossibly well-maintained. Its architecture is a blend of every civilization that has ever existed—towering Gothic pillars stand beside intricate Eastern wooden carvings, while Deco lamps cast shadows against ceilings painted with celestial constellations that shift when no one is looking.

The Station’s Features

A Clock That Doesn’t Follow Time: At the center of the station is a colossal, hanging clock, suspended in mid-air by unseen forces. Its hands tick forward, backward, and sometimes in circles (I meant by the whole thing spins, not just its hand), completely ignoring the concept of linear time. Some say it shows the time of a person’s fate, while others believe it displays events that have yet to happen.

The Silent Announcer: There are no loudspeaker announcements here. Instead, the air itself whispers train schedules directly into passengers’ minds in a language they instinctively understand.

A Floor That Remembers Every Step: The station’s marble floor is alive in a way—it records the footsteps of every being that has ever passed through. If you look closely, you might see faint, glowing footprints appearing and disappearing as echoes of travelers long gone.Or is it?

Ticket Booths Manned by Shadows: The ticket clerks are featureless silhouettes, vaguely humanoid but without faces or expressions. They do not speak, but if you hand them the correct fare—a secret, a memory, or a fragment of your soul—they will slide you a ticket to your desired realm.

The Station Guards—Sentinels of Balance: Unlike mortal stations, this place needs no police—but it has Sentinels. Towering, armored beings with no visible faces patrol the platforms, ensuring that nothing disrupts the balance of the realms. They do not interfere unless a rule is broken, and those who break the rules are never seen again.

Platforms & Trains

Each platform leads to a different realm, marked by glowing sigils floating in the air, their symbols shifting and rearranging depending on who is looking.

Platform 1 - The Mortal Realm: The most desolate platform, barely used, as few mortals ever come here, and even fewer leave. The train to the mortal world looks almost…ordinary, except it is always empty when it arrives.

Platform 2 - The Underworld: Shrouded in mist, this platform always feels colder than the rest. The train here is silent, sleek, and appears aged yet untouched by time. Souls board here with an eerie calm, guided by unseen hands.

Platform 3 - The Celestial Realms (Heaven): Warm golden light filters through this platform, and the sound of soft bells and distant, unearthly music fills the air. The train doors do not open for just anyone—only those "invited" can step through.

Platform 4 - The Infernal Depths (Hell): A faint sulfuric scent lingers here, though the platform itself looks surprisingly inviting. The train is a massive obsidian locomotive, its windows swirling with flames that show glimpses of infernal cities beyond. Strangely, some demons board the train while casually sipping coffee.

There are hidden platforms, accessible only to those who know how to look—leading to forgotten realms, lost timelines, or places that should not exist.

The Waiting Area: Where Time Has No Meaning

While waiting for their train, passengers can explore the station’s amenities, which seem tailored to each traveler’s desires.

A Library of Unwritten Stories: A massive library exists within the station, filled with books that change depending on who reads them. Some books write themselves in real-time, detailing the reader’s possible futures.

A Café That Serves Impossible Drinks: The café doesn’t have a menu—you simply sit down, and the waiter brings you the drink you need most at that moment. Some receive warm tea that reminds them of home, others receive glowing, shifting liquids that taste like forgotten emotions.

A Music Hall That Plays Memories: Instead of a live orchestra, the music hall plays the sounds of a person’s past, woven into hauntingly beautiful melodies. For some, it is nostalgic. For others, it is unbearable.

Outside the Middle Zone Station.

Stepping outside the Middle Zone Station is like walking into a dream—or a nightmare—depending on who you are and what you expect from reality. Unlike the station itself, which has a structured and timeless elegance, the world beyond is an ever-shifting, boundaryless cityscape where logic and physics are mere suggestions rather than rules.

The City That Shouldn’t Exist

The Middle Zone is not one city but a fusion of many, a paradoxical crossroads where remnants of different worlds overlap. Some parts feel ancient, others impossibly futuristic, and many are simply…wrong, existing in a way that breaks mortal understanding.

A Skyline That Changes with Your Perspective – Looking straight ahead, you might see a sprawling, lantern-lit city reminiscent of old Eastern capitals, with curved rooftops and floating banners. But turn your head, and suddenly the skyline has changed—there are neon-lit skyscrapers stretching into the void, their windows filled with shifting, unreadable symbols.

Floating Islands & Gravity-Defying Structures – Entire districts float in the sky, anchored by enormous chains or held in place by forces unknown. Some buildings are upside-down, yet people walk inside them as if it’s normal. Occasionally, an entire street folds in on itself, like a piece of paper being turned.

Streets That Loop Back on Themselves – You can walk down a narrow alleyway lined with old teahouses and street vendors, only to find yourself back at the station, even though you never turned around. Some roads lead to places that shouldn’t exist—an underground city visible in the sky, a garden where time stands still, or a forgotten battlefield where spectral warriors fight an eternal war.

Doors That Open to Other Worlds – Scattered throughout the city are doors—some set into walls, some standing alone in the middle of the street. Opening one might lead you to a bustling marketplace, a quiet forest, or an endless void filled with stars. There is no way to tell where a door will lead unless you step through.

The Inhabitants: Who (or What) Lives Here?

The Middle Zone is home to beings who do not fit anywhere else—those who have been forgotten by time, lost souls, wandering gods, and anomalies that should not exist.

Ghostly Vendors & Marketplaces – The markets here sell things you cannot find in the mortal world—bottled dreams, lost memories, whispers of forgotten names, and even time itself. The vendors are often spectral, flickering between existence and nothingness, their faces blurry and indistinct. Some may have multiple faces, shifting with every blink.

Wandering Gods & Higher Beings – Deities from forgotten pantheons, castaway angels, and eldritch figures walk these streets, sometimes appearing human, other times revealing their true, incomprehensible forms. They do not interfere with mortals, though their presence alone warps the space around them.

Demons and Devils on Business Trips – You might see a well-dressed demon, briefcase in hand, discussing contracts over a steaming cup of impossible coffee. Deals are struck in casual conversations, and a simple handshake might cost you a century of your life without you realizing it.

Mortals Who Have Lost Their Way – Few humans ever step foot here, and those who do either have a reason or have made a mistake. Some are desperate to return home, while others linger, enchanted by the allure of a world outside of time.

The Atmosphere: A Beautiful, Unsettling Dream

The Air is Heavy with Forgotten Voices – If you listen closely, the wind whispers in languages you don’t recognize, carrying fragments of conversations that happened centuries ago—or perhaps haven't happened yet?

A Warm Glow with a Bone-Chilling Cold – The lanterns, streetlights, and shop signs emit a comforting golden glow, making the city seem welcoming. Yet, for some reason, the air is always unnaturally cold, no matter how many layers you wear.

The Sound of Distant Music & Bells – Somewhere, a bell tolls in the distance, yet no one knows where it comes from. The music of ancient instruments drifts through the streets, but when you try to follow the sound, it always leads you somewhere unexpected.

Time Moves Strangely Here – The sun never rises, nor does it set. Some places are locked in an eternal evening, while others seem frozen at the edge of dawn or twilight. If you check a clock, it might say three different times at once.

I will do another post about OC’s I have that lives here :)

[helloworld1027]

This is about the Middle Zone I mentioned in the post about Orphyria

I will explain how exactly do people get there, what live there and what it is.

I have this crazy idea about what if I create a zone between Death and Live in my fantasy world like what we saw in TBHK? Like the area that full of waters???I even make a codex based off it-

Time to lock tf in and start fixing my draft writing I guess :

Attention please: This post is not about the Middle Zone, it’s about the train platform that will take you there :)

Platform 12A (Platform 13): The Gateway Between Worlds

Hidden at the farthest edge of the station, just past the bustling platforms, Platform 12A—or, as the locals whisper, Platform 13—is a liminal space that exists somewhere between the mundane and the supernatural. On paper, it is just another platform, but to those who truly look, it is a threshold between realms, where mortals and the denizens of the underworld share the same waiting space.

The Vibe & Surroundings

Despite looking nearly identical to the other platforms—wooden benches, rusted lampposts, and the occasional vending machine—the air shifts the moment you step in. The warm, golden lights flicker just slightly, casting shadows that seem to stretch a little too long before snapping back in place. The atmosphere is unexplainably cold, as if winter permanently lingers here, no matter the season. Breath fogs in the air, goosebumps prickle along exposed skin, and the faint scent of incense and aged parchment drifts through the station.

A large, antique clock looms above the platform, its hands occasionally twitching backward before correcting themselves. Unlike the modern, electric displays of the main station, the departure board here is an old-fashioned split-flap display, clattering rhythmically as it lists destinations to places few humans have ever heard of. Names in lost languages flicker for brief seconds before vanishing again, unreadable to most.

The train schedules are unpredictable—there is no fixed time for departures, yet the train is never late.

The Train Conductor

The Train Conductor is an unsettling yet oddly comforting presence—a towering, robed figure with a skeletal face hidden beneath a tattered hood. Their cloak moves like mist, shifting and unraveling at the edges, as if they are not entirely bound by physical form.

Despite their eerie appearance, they are one of the friendliest entities on the platform. They do not speak in whispers or ominous riddles, but rather in a calm, professional voice, greeting passengers with the same patience as any regular station worker. For human passengers who freeze in terror at their presence, they reach into their cloak and hand out small, colorful candies—usually meant for lost spirit children but now repurposed to calm anxious mortals.

"No need to panic, kid. Take the candy. It's peach-flavored."

Sometimes, they even hum old lullabies under their breath while checking tickets.

(I took their appearance inspired by Death Eaters from Harry Potter, did you notice?)

The Platform's Unique Features

A Ticket Booth That Wasn’t Always There: Unlike the other booths manned by humans, the ticket booth for Platform 12A seems to appear and disappear, depending on who is looking for it. An unseen entity mans the counter, exchanging tickets for unusual fares—sometimes a lock of hair, a secret, or a memory. Money is not accepted here.

Passengers Who Aren’t Always Alive: On normal days, the number of human passengers is few, but wandering spirits, youkai, demons, and even higher deities casually wait for their train, mingling like it’s an ordinary part of daily life. Some read newspapers, others sip from steaming cups of strange teas, and a few exchange gossip about the latest happenings in the mortal realm.

Benches That Carry Echoes of the Past: Sitting on the benches for too long causes strange whispers to brush against the ears, echoes of conversations from past passengers—some from centuries ago. If one listens too carefully, they might hear their own voice from a future journey yet to come.

Mirrors That Reflect More Than Yourself: There are old, dusty mirrors standing against the platform’s columns. The reflection usually seems normal—until a person turns away. Their reflection lingers just a second too long, watching, as if debating whether to follow.

The Ghostly Newspaper Stand: There is a small newspaper stand that sells publications not found anywhere else. The headlines range from mundane mortal news to otherworldly affairs—“Demon Lord Retires, New Succession War Begins,” or “River Styx Floods Again, Spirit Boats Delayed.” Some of the newspapers seem written in shifting languages that only the intended reader can understand.

The Train to the Middle Zone & Underworld

The train itself is a contradiction—an old-fashioned steam locomotive, but with sleek, modern interiors that seem far too advanced for mortal craftsmanship. It is completely silent when it arrives, no screeching of brakes, no rush of displaced air—just an eerie stillness before the doors open.

The first few cars are for mortal passengers, decorated like an elegant Oriental Express, complete with warm lighting, velvet seats, and soft jazz music playing from an unseen radio. (Take inspiration from the Astral Express from HSR)

The middle cars shift in design depending on the needs of the supernatural passengers—some filled with dense fog, others with floating, upside-down furniture, or even pocket dimensions leading to entirely different landscapes.

The last car is permanently locked. Nobody knows what’s inside. Not even the Conductor.

Once the train departs, it vanishes the moment it leaves the station, disappearing into mist—only to reappear at its next destination, wherever that may be.

So in a nutshell:

Platform 12A is a space that defies logic yet follows its own set of unspoken rules. It is welcoming, yet unsettling—a place where time doesn’t flow as expected, where passengers from different realms coexist, and where even the most terrifying figures might hand you a piece of candy just to ease your nerves.

For most, it is a place of mystery.

[helloworld1027]

The fourth country, finally. (There’s 12 in total, can be more)

This nation is a sacred land, deeply devoted to divine beings and the spiritual balance of the world. Here's my concept:

Nation Name: Orphyria (Placeholder, because I feel like I have seen this name somewhere already)

Orphyria is inspired heavily by Greek mythology, blended with influences from other polytheistic religions (such as Hinduism, Norse mythology, and ancient Egyptian beliefs). It is a land where gods, spirits, and celestial beings are deeply intertwined with daily life.

Main Gods they will be worshiping: A vast pantheon of gods, including deities of war, wisdom, nature, love, fate, and death. (Can possibly get changed in the future.)

Prophet system: A single, divinely chosen prophet serves as the mortal voice of the gods, delivering their messages to the people.

Celestial & Infernal balance: Angels, elves, and devils coexist, believing that good and evil must remain in balance rather than one overpowering the other.

Geography & Society

Holy Capital – A grand city built atop floating islands, said to be blessed by the gods themselves.

The Sacred Temples – Vast temple complexes dedicated to different gods, each with unique architecture and rituals.

The Oracular Mountains – A place where the prophet communes with the gods and receives divine visions.

The Underworld Gate – A site where souls are believed to pass into the afterlife, guarded by celestial warriors and infernal judges.I think I should make this connected to the Middle Zone… (Post about Middle Zone I will be posting later, or probably never.)

Society perhaps?

Theocratic Government – The nation is ruled by a Council of High Priests, but the Prophet’s word is absolute, as they are seen as the direct voice of the gods.

Divine Hierarchy – Different races take on various roles based on their connection to the gods:

Angels & Celestials – Serve as priests, scholars, and warriors of divine justice.

Elves & Spirits – Tied to nature deities, acting as guardians of sacred groves and elemental forces.

Devils & Fallen Beings – Believe in atonement and balance, often serving as judges or warriors who maintain cosmic order.

Religious Beliefs & Mythology

1. The Pantheon of the Twelve Thrones

Orphyria worships twelve primary gods, each overseeing different aspects of life and the universe.

The most powerful gods include:

Zethyros, King of the Skies (God of Lightning, Justice, and Kingship)

Nyphira, Mistress of Fate (Goddess of Destiny and Prophecies)

Tyradon, the Flame-forger (God of War and the Forge)

Ephyra, Keeper of Souls (Goddess of the Afterlife and Rebirth)

Azael, the Fallen Star (God of Chaos and Forbidden Knowledge)

2. The Cycle of Judgment

Orphyrians believe in a balance between virtue and sin, where all souls must pass through trials after death.

Souls are judged at the Underworld Gate, where divine and infernal beings weigh their deeds.

Those who prove themselves worthy ascend to Heavens, while those who fail are either reincarnated or serve the gods in penance.

3. The Prophetic Cycle

Every few centuries, a new Prophet is chosen by the gods through a celestial sign (such as a falling star or a divine eclipse).

The current Prophet is an Archangel with rare amber eyes, said to possess visions of the past and future.

Potential Conflicts (in my opinion)

The Balance of Divine Races – Can angels, elves, and devils truly coexist, or will tensions rise?

The Silence of the Gods – In recent years, some believe the gods are no longer answering prayers. What does this mean for the nation? Will the angels fell ill due to the lack of Devine energy?

[helloworld1027]

The third country for my fantasy world yayyy

This nation will be a paradise for artists, musicians, performers, and visionaries.Here is my rough idea of its concept:

Nation Name: Velmaria (Placeholder, can be changed because my naming skills sucks)

Cultural Inspiration:

Velmaria is inspired from countries renowned for their artistic contributions that I knew, including:

Italy & France (Renaissance, classical art, fashion, architecture)

Spain (Flamenco, surrealism, bold expressions of color and emotion)

Greece (Mythology, sculptures, epic poetry, theater, I love them 😍)

Japan (Delicate aesthetics, calligraphy, ukiyo-e, theater traditions like Kabuki)

Mexico (Vibrant folk art, murals, and music, how I love the way they colors-)

India (Intricate dance, spiritual storytelling, detailed craftsmanship)

Geography & Society

The nation is divided into artistic districts, each specializing in a different form of creative expression.

Grand cities are filled with museums, theaters, opera houses, and breathtaking architecture, I don’t know if I should make the streets looks modern but with many form of arts scattered around, or just use traditional architecture and buildings.

Countryside villages focus on traditional craftsmanship—pottery, textile weaving, and ancient storytelling traditions.

Floating gardens, mural-covered streets, and sculpted statues make every corner of the nation a masterpiece.

Types of Art and Their Influence

Fine Arts – Painters, sculptors, and calligraphers flourish, with world-renowned art academies training future masters.

Performing Arts – Theaters host operas, plays, and experimental performances blending old and new styles.

Music – From classical symphonies to passionate flamenco and lively jazz, the nation is filled with melodies.

Fashion & Design – Known for extravagant styles, detailed embroidery, and fashion that doubles as artistic expression.

Literature & Poetry – Philosophers and poets are highly respected, with epic stories passed down through generations.

Gastronomy – Food is considered an art form, blending flavors and presentation into masterpieces.

Possible Historical Events

Velmaria was established by a collective of artists, poets, and musicians who rejected war and sought a land dedicated to creativity.

Art became the heart of governance, influencing politics, architecture, and even warfare through strategic illusions and psychological tactics.

Mythology Ideas

The Legend of the Eternal Canvas

It is believed that hidden deep within Velmaria lies an unfinished painting that, once completed, will reveal the true nature of the universe.

Many artists dedicate their lives searching for it, believing it holds ultimate creative enlightenment.

Possible conflicts

Art vs. Technology – As the world advances, will Velmaria embrace modern tools or stick to traditional methods? (Yes, AI art is involved in this one)

Is there anything that I missed?

[helloworld1027]

Wait, what if Halloween in my fantasy world is celebrated like this?

The night of the Festival of Departed Souls began in an eerie stillness. The air was thick with anticipation as families gathered along the riverbanks and in front of their homes, cradling delicate lanterns infused with spirit energy. Each flickering flame cast a warm, golden glow, their reflections dancing upon the water’s surface—except the water did not move. It was an unsettling stillness, as if the river itself had forgotten how to flow. Not a single ripple disturbed its glassy expanse, not a whisper of current beneath the lanterns. The surface was too smooth, too perfect, as though the world itself had paused to pay its respects to the dead. Against this frozen tableau, the lanterns gleamed like scattered stars, their light a defiant warmth against the cold, uncaring abyss of the night.

The lanterns, once set adrift upon the river, pulsed gently, their ethereal glow acting as beacons for souls who had yet to find their way. Some lanterns hung from wooden beams or were strung along doorways, guiding spirits home for a single fleeting night.

Then, the bell tolled.

A deep, resonant chime echoed through the land, signaling the arrival of the lost. The first ripple disturbed the water, and with it, the air grew thick with unseen presences. Some were faint, mere whispers in the wind, while others coalesced into translucent forms, eager to reunite with the world they once knew.

As the spirits emerged, the living welcomed them with outstretched hands, guiding them toward the festival’s grandest tradition—the Dance of the Departed. In the town square, lit by the glow of lanterns and moonlight, the music began.

A haunting yet playful melody rose into the night, its rhythm dictated by a drumbeat that mimicked the steady, inevitable march of time. The living and the dead stepped in unison, partners grasping hands, twirling and swaying in seamless harmony. Every four verses, the circle shifted—partners swapped, hands released, and new ones found. Some dancers held firm grips on familiar fingers, faces alight with bittersweet joy. Others twirled into empty space—yet, in the stillness between movements, they felt it. A lingering warmth, the ghost of an embrace, a whisper of laughter.

They danced in a flowing, hypnotic pattern, the steps simple yet mesmerizing. A gentle step forward, a slow twirl, a playful bow, then a sweeping motion of arms as if embracing the air itself. The spirits moved without weight, their feet gliding just above the ground. The living followed the same motions, their bodies swaying in a rhythm that felt eternal, as if this dance had been performed since the dawn of time.

And through it all, voices lifted in song, accompanied by ghostly laughter and eerie chimes.

“Tip-tap, hear the bones snap,

The living shiver, the ghosts all clap!

Shadows dance in the midnight ring,

Everybody hail the Pumpkin King!”*

The dancers clasped hands, twirling in unison as lantern light flickered across their faces. Spirits grinned, their luminous eyes glinting with mischief.

A sweeping turn, a playful stomp. The dancers clapped their hands as they shifted partners, the spirits flickering like candlelight. The energy grew wilder, more frantic, feet tapping faster as the verse quickened.

“Knock-knock, who’s at your door?

A ghastly guest, a friend once more!

Say my name and don’t you scream,

Or I’ll haunt you in your dreams!”

As the chorus rose, the dancers moved faster, weaving between seen and unseen partners. The spirits glowed brighter, their laughter blending with the chorus.

“Oh-ho-ho, the veil is thin,

The dead march out, the fun begins!

Feed us sweets, we'll play along,

Or we’ll drag you to our song!”

They lifted their arms in unison, hands joining before twirling apart. A misty breeze swirled through the square, carrying laughter that had not been heard in decades.

“But fear not, love, it’s all in jest,

Tonight we dance, tonight we rest!

And when the final bell does ring,

Everybody hail the Pumpkin King!”

Another shift, another swirl. The rhythm slowed, movements becoming gentle once more. The spirits, though still alight with joy, began to flicker faintly. The song neared its final lines, and with it, the dance came to its close.

“A debt is paid, a gift is owed,

The Reaper walks where lanterns glow.

For every soul who’s lost their way,

He guides them home, he lets them stay.”

With one last bow, the dancers parted, their breath coming in quiet gasps. The spirits, flickering like candlelight, lingered for only a moment before beginning to fade.

"So eat, and drink, and dance around,

Before we go beneath the ground!

Farewell, farewell! ‘Til next we sing—

Everybody hail the Pumpkin King!"

When the final verse echoed into the night, the bell tolled once more, signaling the time for remembrance. Families gathered before their ancestors’ graves, sitting cross-legged in the cool grass. This was not a moment of mourning but one of celebration. Stories were shared, laughter rang out, and the spirits, visible only to those who listened closely, sat beside their living kin, whispering of days long gone.

It was also the time of renewal. Some spirits, dissatisfied with their original funerals, made their demands known. A long-dead grandfather scolded his descendants for letting the family house fall into disrepair. A mischievous brother who had died young demanded his funeral be redone, this time with an entire band playing an overdramatic battle theme. A mischievous voice carried on the wind: “My first send-off was dreadfully dull! I want a rap battle instead!” And so, with grinning faces, the living honored the request. A makeshift stage was built upon the grave, and one by one, family members took turns exchanging verses, their rhymes playful yet heartfelt. The spirit, delighted beyond words, watched with a broad, spectral grin.

For others, the ceremony was more traditional—tombs were cleaned with utmost care, graves reburied if necessary, and spirits were consulted on their final wishes. The Watchers of the Departed, clad in skeletal garb, roamed the graveyards, tending to the forgotten souls, ensuring that even those without families were honored.

Finally, as the last tales were told and the graves gleamed under lantern light, offerings were prepared. The living crafted delicate candies and treats, placing them upon altars and grave markers. The dead received these gifts not as sustenance, but as blessings—wishes for a peaceful passage and a painless death when the time inevitably came for the living to join them. “May you die old, not young. You’re far too interesting to go so soon.”

All the while, atop the highest ground, the Grim Reaper stood. Cloaked in shadows, scythe in hand, he watched over the festival with quiet solemnity. It was his duty to ensure every soul had enough energy to take form, if only for this single, fleeting day. And for that, many came to him in gratitude.

As the final bell tolled, the spirits began to fade. The lanterns dimmed, one by one, as the river carried them further and further into the horizon.

And as the last flicker of spirit light vanished into the dark, the Grim Reaper turned, his work complete for another year.