Urza Aolan
Ghost-Blooded
Motivation:
Intimacys : (Hate) Creature of Darkness
Cult of Bunny Mask
In the depths, the bunny mask whispers,
“Join us, and surrender to the Oblivion.”
In the desolate northern wastes, where the winds whisper tales of sorrow and the land weeps tears of ice, the enigmatic Bunny Mask cult carries out its secretive rites. Born from the Deathlord Lover’s twisted sense of humor, the cult was a gift to the Dragon-Blooded, but one laced with cruel irony.
Lover intended for the Dragon-Blooded to breed without restraint, breeding into oblivion. However, the blood of the Dragon had long since thinned, leaving its descendants slaves to their passions, incapable of the selective breeding once practiced by their ancestors. The cult became a haven of unbridled lust, a mockery of the Dragon-Blooded’s noble heritage.
Though some Dragon-Blooded still find themselves drawn to the cult’s forbidden embrace and some of them are born into the cult, they do not participate in its rituals for the sake of procreation. The sanctity of their bloodline has been irrevocably tainted. Instead, they seek the boundless pleasures and strange experiences the cult offers.
Within the cult’s hidden enclaves, bizarre and sensual rituals unfold. Clad in masks of bone, fashioned from the skulls of arctic hares, the cultists indulge in orgiastic rites that blur the lines between ecstasy and pain. These gatherings are not driven by a quest for power or domination, but rather by an insatiable hunger for novel sensations and forbidden experiences.
Shrouded in secrecy, the origins of Aolan remain largely unknown. Brought to the cult as a child by one of Lover’s slaves, she bore only her surname, a whisper in the icy winds of the north. Yet, her presence within the cult sparked a profound transformation.
As Aolan matured into a captivating woman, her influence over the cult deepened. The hedonistic revelries took on a new dimension, becoming intertwined with arcane rituals performed in specific locations. Though the cultists themselves remain oblivious, these rituals now serve a dual purpose: indulging in forbidden desires while also unknowingly tapping into the prophetic power of the Yozi, He Who Sees the Shape of Things to Come.
Under Aolan’s enigmatic guidance, the cult abandoned its northern home, venturing south in search of these designated sites. The cultists, driven by an insatiable thirst for pleasure, are mere pawns in a grander scheme, their actions guided by whispers from the “Lidless,” the unsettling eye that sometimes appears during their profane rituals.
With the arrival of Aolan, the Deathlord Lover seemed to lose interest in her creation. The cult, once a plaything for her amusement, had taken on a life of its own, guided by forces beyond her control. She never once interfered with the cult from that point on.
Determining paternity is near impossible, leaving only the female descendants of Aolan to carry her surname as a faint echo of her legacy. Only these female descendants retain a vague memory of the cult’s connection to the Yozi. The current members, consumed by their hedonistic pursuits, remain blissfully unaware of the deeper meaning behind their actions. They are slaves to pleasure, their rituals erratic and senseless, driven by the seductive whispers of the Lidless.
The female descendants of Aolan, while still partaking in the cult’s sensual rituals, possess a unique understanding that sets them apart. They carry within them a rudimentary knowledge of genetics, a gift bestowed upon them by the Yozi, He Who Sees the Shape of Things to Come. This knowledge, while fragmented and incomplete, guides their choices during the cult’s bizarre ceremonies.
They possess a basic understanding that their actions hold a deeper significance, though the full extent of their purpose remains shrouded in mystery. They feel a primal urge to pair specific individuals together during these rituals, their choices driven by a subconscious understanding of bloodlines and potential.
In these moments of ecstatic union, fueled by the cult’s hedonistic practices, flesh merges and reshapes in grotesque and unpredictable ways. It’s a macabre spectacle, a twisted parody of the selective breeding once practiced by the Dragon-Blooded. Through these aberrant acts, the descendants of Aolan unknowingly seek to reclaim a warped version of the legacy denied to their ancestors - a legacy of controlled creation and the preservation of a pure bloodline.
The other cultists, lost in their pursuit of pleasure, remain oblivious to the subtle manipulations of Aolan’s descendants. They are mere pawns, their bodies and desires tools in a grander design they cannot comprehend.
This hidden layer of purpose adds a chilling dimension to the cult’s practices. While they revel in their forbidden desires, they unknowingly participate in a grotesque experiment, their bodies and souls manipulated by forces beyond their comprehension.
The Bunny Mask cult met its end in a cataclysmic ritual, a maelstrom of forbidden energies and twisted desires. When the dust settled, only one remained: a child named Urza Aolan, the last of her lineage.
Alone and oblivious to the cult’s dark history, Urza carries the weight of their legacy within her. The fragmented knowledge of the Crafting Genesis, the instinctive understanding of bloodlines and potential - all reside within her.
Childhood (0-15)
“As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods;
They kill us for their sport.”
As a child, I was dragged across Creation by my parents, devoted followers of a Yozi whose name was rarely spoken aloud, whispered only in hushed tones and secret gatherings. My memories are a whirlwind of dusty roads, hidden shrines tucked away in forgotten corners of the world, and the constant murmur of prayers that held a chilling undertone.They called it a pilgrimage To me, it was a lonely, desolate path paved with neglect. My parents, consumed by their devotion, saw me as nothing more than an afterthought, a vessel to carry on their twisted lineage. They were both dragon-bloods, I saw small, almost invisible scales on my mother’s skin, it was very rare for a child to know who their father was, but for some reason beyond my understanding I always knew who mine was.
I despised my childhood; it was a loveless existence where twisted rituals replaced affection. My parents, lost in their fervent devotion, subjected me to bizarre ceremonies in the name of their obscure god. I was forced to witness grotesque displays of “love” and even participate in them. that made my young heart pound with terror. Their faces, once familiar and comforting, became contorted masks of religious fervor, leaving me feeling more alone than ever.I yearned for affection, for a simple hug or a kind word, but my parents’ eyes were always fixed on some distant horizon, their minds clouded by fanaticism.
Then, one day, they were gone. Swallowed whole by a ritual that promised ascension but delivered only oblivion. I was alone, abandoned in a world that I barely understood, clutching the tattered remnants of a childhood stolen from me.
Creation is not kind to orphan children. I learned that harsh truth quickly, my stomach rumbling with hunger and my body shivering in the biting cold. I stole scraps of food when I could, scavenged for shelter in abandoned hovels, and traded whispers of forgotten lore for a few coins to keep myself alive.
I did what I had to. I danced for drunken sailors in seedy taverns, and did so much worse things to myself, my life echoing the twisted rituals of my past, a chilling spectacle that earned me enough to fill my belly for a few days. I read fortunes for gullible merchants, weaving tales of doom and prosperity from the fragments of occult knowledge I had gleaned from my parents’ teachings.
And sometimes, when desperation gnawed at my soul, I used the secrets of the twisted love that I knowed all my life to manipulate lonely souls, extracting favors and coin in exchange for fleeting moments of fabricated affection. It was a bitter irony, using the very thing that had scarred me to survive in a world that seemed blind to my pain.
But amidst the grime and desperation, there was a spark within me that refused to be extinguished. A spark of defiance, a yearning for something more than mere survival.
One day, fate smiled upon me, however fleetingly.I was thirteen, huddled in a back alley, when a carriage pulled up beside me. A man emerged, his eyes dark and piercing, his demeanor exuding an air of quiet authority. He offered me a job as a servant in his household, his gaze lingering on the worn symbol of a lidless eye I wore around my neck, this symbol was engraved in a locket , the only possession that I have of my parents .
It was a strange offer, but desperation outweighed caution. I accepted, drawn by the promise of food and shelter, and perhaps, a chance to escape the shadows that haunted me. Little did I know that this enigmatic man held an interest far deeper than mere servitude. He sought the secrets of Cytherea’s twisted love, the forbidden knowledge that lingered in the recesses of my memory.
The man who took me in was [[Baron Eduard Volkov, a powerful figure in Vinushka, a bustling trading city nestled near the sprawling metropolis of Chiaroskuro. His influence stretched far and wide, his fingers woven into the intricate tapestry of the merchant Guild that controlled the flow of goods and secrets throughout Creation.
Under his tutelage, I blossomed. He taught me. And more than that, he told me about magic, he guided me, was my mentor. And I taught him everything I knew about my cult, I was very young and I had no idea of the mistake I was making. And more than that, I believed in him and his good intentions, I didn’t have the ability to deal socially with people, traumas always formed a barrier in my relationships and thoughts.
But it was his son, Dmitri, who truly captured my heart. We were kindred spirits, we would spend hours in whispered conversation, sharing our fears and dreams, seeking solace in each other’s company. As we grew older, our bond deepened, blossoming into a love that transcended the shadows of our past. Dmitri never asked me about my past, respecting the unspoken pact I had made with his father. Our focus shifted to the future, to building a life together free from the shackles of religious fervor.
Ordeals
THE STATION OF JOURNEY
As a child, I didn’t realize it, but my nomadic upbringing with the cult was inadvertently preparing me for the trials I would later face as a mage. The constant movement and exposure to diverse cultures honed my adaptability and broadened my understanding of the world around me. The endless hours spent gazing at the ever-changing landscapes from our wagon on the road instilled in me a deep appreciation for the natural world and its hidden mysteries.
THE STATION OF FEAR
The Ordeal of Fear was an ever-present companion throughout my childhood. The Devotees’ rituals were often unsettling, filled with strange chants, cryptic symbols, and the palpable presence of otherworldly entities. I witnessed the manifestations of demonic power firsthand, their chilling whispers echoing in the darkest corners of my mind. The fear I experienced in those moments, the raw, visceral terror that gripped my heart, tempered my spirit and made me resilient in the face of adversity. Always afraid of when the next ritual would happen and if I would be forced to participate.
THE STATION OF HUMILITY
The Ordeal of Humility was perhaps the most insidious of the trials I unknowingly faced. After my parents vanished into the Soul’t, I was left to fend for myself, a child alone in a world that cared little for orphans. I did what I had to to survive, taking on menial jobs, begging for scraps, and even resorting to selling my body in the seedy underbelly of a port city.
I was young and beautiful, and my desperation made me an easy target for those who sought to exploit me. For a time, I allowed myself to be defined by the desires of others, my pride swallowed by the gnawing hunger in my belly and the fear of being alone. I questioned my worth, wondering if I was destined to be nothing more than a plaything for those with coin to spare.
THE STATION OF TUTELAGE
The Baron, recognizing my potential, took me under his wing, transforming me from a servant into a student. He taught me medicine, craft and magic. I devoured knowledge in his library, not just the words on the page, but also the hidden meanings and connections between concepts, as the Baron had taught me that sorcery required understanding the mystic import of all things. Our bond evolved from employer and employee to mentor and student, then to something akin to father and daughter.
THE STATION OF SACRIFICE
Now, the final trial awaited me, the most difficult choice I had yet to make. To fully embrace sorcery, I had to relinquish that which I drew the most strength from: a bond to the world. It was not about abandoning love or severing ties; it was about recognizing that my power did not stem from external validation or dependence on others. It was about finding the wellspring of strength within myself.
This final trial manifested as a heart-wrenching ordeal. To truly become a sorceress, I had to let go of the last vestiges of my past, the lingering attachment to my parents and the life they had taken from me. It was time to sever the final thread that bound me to the pain and trauma of my childhood.
One day, alone, I went to a high cliff near the water. I stand here, on the edge of the world, it feels like. The wind whips my hair around my face, salty and cold. In my hands, I clutch a locket. It’s small, worn smooth from years of being held. Inside is a tiny painting of my parents. Mama, with her kind eyes and gentle smile. Papa, his face strong and proud.
This locket is all I have left of them.
It’s silly, I know. They’re gone, swallowed up by the darkness that always seemed to cling to them. But still, a part of me—the little girl who yearns for a mother’s hug, a father’s comforting words—clings to this hope that maybe, just maybe, they loved me. That this locket was their way of saying, “We care.”
But it’s a lie. A cruel, twisted lie.
I remember their faces, not the painted ones in the locket, but the real ones. Twisted in ecstasy during those horrible rituals. Their laughter, cold and hollow, as they forced me to witness things no child should ever see.
A sob catches in my throat. It hurts, oh, it hurts so much. To know that the love I craved was never real. That the people who were supposed to protect me were the ones who hurt me the most.
But I won’t let their darkness consume me. I won’t let their twisted love define me.
With trembling hands, I open the locket one last time. I memorize their faces, the lie of their love. Then, with a scream that tears through the wind, I hurl it into the abyss below.
It’s gone. My last connection to them. The last shred of hope that maybe, just maybe, they loved me.
It’s over.
Tears stream down my face, hot and stinging. But beneath the pain, a flicker of something else stirs. Defiance. Strength. The promise of a new beginning.
Early Adulthood (15-18)
Me and Dmitri married in a simple ceremony, the warmth of our love eclipsing the opulent grandeur of the Baron’s estate. Soon after, our daughter Anya was born, her tiny hands clutching at my heart with a fierce love I never thought possible.
I poured all my unspent affection into Anya, determined to give her the childhood I never had. I filled her days with laughter, stories, and the simple joys of life. I taught her the value of kindness, compassion, and the importance of forging her own path, free from the expectations of others.
I wanted Anya to know that the world could be a place of beauty and wonder, not just the darkness and despair I had experienced. I wanted her to grow up with a heart full of love, not the twisted, distorted version that had haunted my past.
With the locket gone, a newfound clarity settled over me. I was no longer the lost child clinging to a distorted memory of love.
The Baron, recognizing my multifaceted potential, intensified my training. He delved deeper into the esoteric arts, revealing the intricate and subtle manipulations of essence, particularly those that intersected with the crafts and healing. I proved to be an adept student, my mind sharp and focused, my spirit unburdened by the emotional turmoil that had once plagued me.
I worked alongside the Baron, my reputation as a skilled sorceress, crafter, and healer growing with each successful contract. My magic flourished, fueled by the pain of my past and the unwavering support of my husband.
But peace in Vinushka was not to last. Tensions with a neighboring tribe of Wyld mutants reached a boiling point, plunging the region into a brutal war. As a sorceress, crafter, and healer, I was conscripted into the city’s militia. My magic, particularly its unique blend of crafting and restoration, was deemed a valuable asset in the fight against our monstrous foes.
Gone were the days of negotiating trade deals and enchanting contracts. Instead, I dedicated my every waking moment to the war effort. I carved intricate messages into the very trees, sending warnings and battle reports across vast distances. I summoned elementals and war dogs to bolster our ranks, and enchanted weapons and armor with potent elemental effects.
My crafting magic proved invaluable in restoring the wooden equipment that was so vital to our defense. I repaired catapults, mended broken spears, and even enchanted them for greater range and accuracy. I also took care of the smaller, but no less important, tasks, mending torn clothes and fixing broken tools.
Between caring for the sick and wounded, and pouring my essence into countless enchantments and invocations, I barely had a moment’s rest.
And I know I did terrible things, but I did what was necessary. War is a cruel mistress, and the horrors I witnessed etched themselves into my soul. I saw brave soldiers torn apart by monstrous claws, innocent civilians consumed by the Wyld taint, and the once vibrant landscapes of my home twisted into grotesque parodies of nature.
The only solace I found was in the letters from home. Dmitri’s words of love and Anya’s childish drawings filled my heart with warmth, reminding me of what I was fighting for. But as the war dragged on, the letters grew less frequent, until they stopped altogether.
When the war finally ended, a hollow victory at best, I rushed back to Vinushka, my heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and dread. The city bore the scars of conflict, its once bustling streets now eerily silent.
I raced towards the Baron’s estate, my mind filled with visions of embracing Dmitri and Anya, of sharing stories of my triumphs and fears. But as I approached the familiar gates, a sense of unease washed over me. The house was dark, silent, a tomb rather than a home.
With trembling hands, I unlocked the front door, my footsteps echoing in the empty foyer. A cold draft led me to the basement, a place I had rarely ventured into before. The air grew heavy with the stench of decay and burnt incense as I descended the creaking stairs.
There, in the dimly lit chamber, I found them. Dmitri and the Baron, their lifeless bodies sprawled across the cold stone floor. Their faces were contorted in agony, their eyes wide with terror. The room was littered with occult symbols and ritualistic paraphernalia, a chilling testament to the Baron’s descent into madness.
A wave of nausea washed over me as I realized the truth. The Baron, consumed by his obsession with the occult, had sacrificed Dmitri in a desperate attempt to appease some unknown Yozi. The twisted irony of it all was almost unbearable. The man who had taken me in, who had given me a chance at a new life, had ultimately destroyed the very thing I held most dear.
A small, crumpled figure lay huddled in a corner, partially obscured by the shadows. My heart leaped into my throat as I recognized Anya’s favorite doll, its porcelain face cracked and stained with blood. A silent scream tore through me as I rushed towards her, only to find her tiny body cold and lifeless, her innocent eyes forever closed.
I collapsed to my knees, my heart shattered into a million pieces. The pain was so intense, so all-consuming, that I thought I might cease to exist. But somewhere deep within me, a spark of defiance remained. I would not let their deaths be in vain. I would find out what dark forces had driven the Baron to such madness, and I would make them pay for the lives they had stolen from me.
Adulthood (18-19)
Consumed by grief and rage, I retreated from the world, seeking solace in the only thing that had ever offered me a semblance of control: knowledge. I delved into the forbidden texts of the Baron’s library, devouring obscure tomes on demonology, cult practices, and the darkest corners of sorcery.
In Chiaroscuro, my expertise in demonology and the occult became a valuable commodity. I found myself sought out by members of the Golden Janissaries, a secretive organization known for their dealings with creatures of darkness. I provided them with information and the majority with medicine and treatment, in exchange for some coin and access to other information.
I never accompanied them on their expeditions, sometimes invocation a hond to help them. My safe house, a nondescript dwelling nestled in a quiet corner of the city slum, became my sanctuary, a place where I could study, prepare my spells, and recharge my spirit.
But one night, my sanctuary was violated. I awoke to a chilling presence, a palpable darkness that hung heavy in the air. A figure emerged from the shadows, its form flickering and distorted, a shadow It was a demon, summoned by unknown forces to silence me forever.
This was no ordinary demon. It was a shapeshifter, a master of disguise, a creature that could blend seamlessly into the fabric of Creation. It preyed on the vulnerable, feeding on their fears and insecurities, twisting their desires into twisted manifestations. It was a shadow that slithered through the city’s underbelly, leaving a trail of despair and shattered dreams in its wake.
The demon’s presence was a blight upon the room, twisting the shadows into grotesque shapes and filling the air with a sulfurous stench. His voice, a raspy whisper that slithered into my mind, promised power, knowledge, and revenge – the very things I craved.
But I am not someone to bargain with demons. I’m someone to banish them.
With a surge of adrenaline, I drew upon the power within me, the magic honed through years of relentless study and fueled by the righteous fury that burned within my soul. The air crackled with energy as the demon forced the ward that protected my room, I do not have time to lose.
The demon snarled, baring his fangs as he lunged towards me. But I was ready. With a cry of defiance, I unleashed a torrent of pure, cleansing energy, driving the demon back into the shadows from which he had emerged.
He writhed and twisted, his form flickering like a dying flame. But I would not relent. I chanted the ancient words of banishment, drawing upon the primal forces of Creation to sever his connection to the mortal realm.
With a final, desperate shriek, the demon was ripped from existence, his essence hurled into the desolate wasteland of Malfeas. A wave of exhaustion washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by a sense of triumph. I had faced a creature of pure evil and emerged victorious.
This demon was dangerous not merely for his power, but for his cunning and seductive whispers. He preyed upon the vulnerable, offering false promises of power and fulfillment in exchange for their souls. He was a master manipulator, a weaver of illusions, and a destroyer of hope. His presence in Creation was a cancer, a threat to the delicate balance between light and darkness.
And then I saw it, swirling around me: a black aura like a moonless night, encompassing me in darkness. Yet, even in the midst of that suffocating gloom, light escaped, radiating from the periphery of the inky aura. A testament, perhaps, that even in the face of utter darkness, a flicker of hope remains.
From the shadows emerged a group of figures, their movements fluid and graceful, their eyes gleaming in the moonlight. They were Lunars of the Winding Pack, a band of shape-shifting warriors renowned for their mastery of the Wyld.
Before I could react, a tall figure stepped forward, his face a mask of predatory intensity. It was Baltazar, a contact I had made in my pursuit of occult knowledge, but I had never known him to be a Lunar.
“Your skills are impressive. The Winding Pack could use someone like you.” he said, his voice a low growl
His words caught me off guard. I had never in my hole life considered joining the Lunars. I was terrified of trusting anyone again. But Jahzara’s kind smile and gentle words made me feel welcome, safe even. I found myself agreeing to go with them.
Baltazar led me to a hidden sanctuary deep within the wilderness. There, I made my fist sacred hunt, and underwent the painful ritual of tattooing, the mystical ink binding me to Luna and stabilizing my caste. I trained alongside the other Lunars, honing my shapeshifting abilities and magic.
Jahzara, the Changing Moon, a charismatic and impulsive warrior, showed me the thrill of embracing raw power and instinct. And even The Ghost Wolf, a solitary figure who stalked the shadows made me feel part of something bigger than myself. But it was Baltazar who became my mentor, guiding me through the intricacies of lore and sharing his vast knowledge of the world and sorcery. He recognized my expertise in demonology, encouraging me to use my skills to protect Creation.
Sacred Hunt
Under the pale light of Luna, I embarked on the sacred hunt. It was my first, a ritual of profound significance marking my passage into the world of the Changing Breeds. Clad in simple garments, my bare feet silent on the forest floor, I followed the faintest rustle of leaves, the subtle scent of musk, the glint of moonlight on water.
This was not a mere test of skill or a pursuit of sustenance, but a quest to find my totemic spirit. A being that embodied the essence of transformation and adaptability – a guide on my path as a Lunar Exalted. The forest floor grew damp as I tracked my quarry, the air thick with the scent of decaying leaves and rich earth. A small stream gurgled nearby, its water reflecting the silvery light of the moon. And then I saw it, a flash of electric blue against the drab backdrop of the riverbed. A beautiful blue creature, the size of a cat and vibrantly colored, pulsed with a life force that echoed the ebb and flow of the tides. An animal that looked out of the creation, I had never seen something like this before, but I felt the connection.
For hours, I patiently waited, my heart pounding with anticipation. Then, the slug began to crawl onto the bank, its body leaving a shimmering trail in the moonlight. It was my chance. I lunged, my hand closing around its soft, gelatinous form. The magnificent creature, fought desperately for its life. With a merciful strike, I ended its life, its essence mingling with mine as I tasted its heart’s blood.
Lunar
To secure my position within the Winding Path, I had to prove my worth extended far beyond the realm of arcane mastery. Baltazar, my mentor, recognized that true power resides not only in the manipulation of magic, but also in the subtle art of social navigation. He devised a series of trials, each meticulously designed to challenge my intellect, adaptability, and understanding of the intricate dance of human interaction.
I approached each mission with the precision of a lunar huntress. I sought individuals whose skills and knowledge resonated with the task at hand, consuming their essence to temporarily embody their forms. This granted me access to a fraction of their memories, experiences, and even abilities, allowing me to infiltrate circles I would otherwise be barred from, gather crucial information, and secure the resources needed to succeed. I am not naturally cunning, but I possess a keen intellect, and I meticulously plan each mission.
With every form I assumed, with every life I consumed, another layer was added to my being. My understanding of the world deepened, and my repertoire of skills expanded. I became a tapestry woven from countless experiences, a mosaic of personalities, a vessel for a chorus of voices whispering their secrets. Some forms held a particular allure, their essence resonating with my own on a profound level.
Through these transformations, I honed my abilities, transcending the limitations of a mere mage. But I recognize my limitations, I would never be like the people I replaced even if I looked like them. I managed to play my part through careful planning and observation, but when things went out of my way and I needed to rely on my manipulation skills or charisma things tended to get complicated for me. Despite this, I managed to find my space, and complete the missions given to me, even if it was through more tortuous paths;
2 years following my induction into the Winding Pack were a whirlwind of growth and learning. I honed my Lunar abilities, embracing the raw power that flowed through me. I became a force, a sorceress, my knowledge of demonic lore proving invaluable in our battles against the encroaching darkness. The southwas a chaos and for some time I was needed.
Baltazar, ever the wise mentor, saw potential in me beyond my magical skills.It was during a late-night conversations, under the light of a full moon, that he first spoke of the Kin.
The Kin, he explained, were a race of beings created in an ancient experiment gone awry. They had demonic origin. For centuries, they had lived in seclusion, their existence a closely guarded secret. But now, their numbers were growing, their influence spreading, and their true nature becoming increasingly difficult to conceal.
Baltazar told me of young Lunars like myself who live in this remote forests where the Kin resided, seeking to understand their motives and assess the threat they posed to Creation. He spoke of the dangers they faced, the temptations they encountered, and the sacrifices they had made in the name of duty.
I had faced demons before, but the Kin represented a different kind of challenge. They were not purely evil, but rather a twisted amalgamation of light and darkness. I volunteered to join the Lunars who were investigating the Kin. I knew the risks, but I also knew that my knowledge of demonic lore and my experience with the occult could prove invaluable in understanding this enigmatic race. With Baltazar’s blessing, I set off for the remote forest, determined to uncover the truth about the Kin and the threat they posed to Creation.
I had spent weeks studying the Kin from afar, observing their customs and rituals from the shadows. They were a fascinating and disturbing race. Their society was a complex hierarchy, ruled by a council of blind elders who are sorcerers, they wear for power.
To infiltrate their ranks, I knew I had to become one of them. I had to shed my Lunar identity and assume the guise of a Kin.
My opportunity came in the form of a young woman. She had recently returned to the tribe after a long absence, she was a dragon blooded and a problem. I was thinking in taking her heart and add to my collection.
The Kin
I spend a long time just observing. I observe their customs, participate in their rituals, and learn their secrets. I observed their gods and understand everything that I can ther motivation, intimacies, virtues …
The Kin are a curious and unsettling group. Their unwavering devotion to their animal gods is a testament to their strong sense of community and purpose, yet their rituals, often brutal and grotesque, leave a bitter taste in my mouth. The sacrifice of their eyes for power, a practice they revere, is a stark reminder of the lengths they will go to for their beliefs.
Their society, a rigid hierarchy ruled by blind elders, is both intriguing and repulsive. The seers, revered for their connection to the spirit world, hold a power that I cannot help but covet. Their magic is a force to be reckoned with.
Their demonic heritage is a double-edged sword, a source of immense power but also a potential for great destruction. I see the darkness that lurks beneath the surface, the hunger for power that could consume them.
But I also see potential. The Kin are a resourceful and resilient people, their connection to the spirit world is undeniable. Their magic, though often used for destructive purposes, could be harnessed for good.
I am here to learn, to understand, to find a way to control and manipulate this power for the best of Creation. I will use their knowledge, their magic, and their devotion to further protect this place. I will become one of them, a seer among the blind, a real sorceress among the devout.
I will not be swayed by sentimentality or compassion. I will use them as they have used others, as a means to an end. And when the time is right, I will take what I have learned and leave them to their fate. I hope that when I live they will be better than today, I really hope that Balthazar is right and exist some hope for this people…In the case I judge that there is not, I will end this here, I will end this before the problem growth even more. I don’t believe there is hope but I chose to believe in a kinder heart than my own.
Malameth Party
Scylla
The moment I laid eyes on her, a shiver ran down my spine. The Dragon blooded Scylla, was undeniably striking, with her golden hair and a strange mask that seemed to hold a universe of secrets, obviously an artifact. But it was the third eye, that emerald orb pulsating on her forehead, that set off alarm bells in my mind. A Dragon-Blooded with the mark of the Kin, and whispers of Yozi ties? It was a volatile combination, a recipe for disaster.
The Kin were already a powder keg, their demonic heritage a constant threat to their fragile balance. The presence of an outsider, especially one with such potent bloodlines, could ignite a conflict that would consume us all. I saw her as a liability, a wild card that could jeopardize my mission and endanger the delicate ecosystem I want to infiltrated.
The decision was swift and ruthless. I had to eliminate her, assume her form, and ensure the Kin remained unaware of my true identity. The night was my cloak, the shadows my allies, as I stalked her through the moonlit forest. But Scylla was not as naive as I had assumed. She sensed my presence, something in the air. Her hond was already prepared, I was thinking that I lead her to be alone a perfect ambush but I was wrong, she allowed herself to be alone, she allowed that situation to happen.
Our clash was brutal and swift, a dance of fangs and claws beneath the canopy of ancient trees. I underestimated her, her hond strength and Dragon blooded aura, was a formidable combination. I was outmatched, my usual tactics useless against her uncanny instincts. As I lay on the forest floor, defeated and exposed, I expected the killing blow. But it never came.
Scylla already knew about Urza, she already talked to the Gods and ask for a chance to change the one that observed them. In the same way Urza was observing the Kin, the gods were observing her, extracting information in their unique ways. When Urza tries to extract information talking to the God-blooded they got more information about her than the other way around, in a way Scylla already knows Urza before that meeting, she already understands how she works. She pleaded to the Gods that she was able to change her to be a Kin not the other way around, she was different from the other lunar, she was smart but with a lot of points to be used and explored. She pleads to the gods that they need to make the others understand and leave them quiet and that was a good opportunity.
Urza, her body aching from the fight, leaned against a moss-covered boulder, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her pride was wounded, her confidence shaken. She had underestimated Scylla, her arrogance blinding her to the true extent of the Dragon-Blooded’s power.
Scylla, her own wounds slowly knitting themselves back together, stood a few paces away, her expression unreadable in the dim light. She had spared Urza’s life, but the distrust in her eyes was evident.
“Why?” Urza finally broke the silence, her voice hoarse and laced with bitterness. “Why didn’t you kill me?”
“Because I see something in you,” she replied, her voice soft but firm. “A strength, a resilience, a hunger for something more than just survival.”
Urza scoffed, her laughter devoid of humor. “You don’t know anything about me! Strength? Resilience? I’m a survivor, nothing more. I’ve clawed my way through the darkness, using whatever means necessary to stay alive. There’s no nobility in my actions, no grand purpose. I just do what need to be done”
Scylla tilted her head, a flicker of empathy crossing her features. “Perhaps not,” she conceded. “But I also see pain, loss, and a deep-seated longing for acceptance. We are not so different, you and I. We both carry the weight of our pasts, the scars of battles fought and loved ones lost.”
Urza’s defenses wavered, her heart aching at the unexpected understanding in Scylla’s words. She had spent so long burying her emotions, convincing herself that vulnerability was a weakness. But in Scylla’s presence, she felt a strange sense of kinship, a connection forged in the crucible of shared trauma.
“I don’t trust you,” Urza admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re an outsider, a Dragon-Blooded with ties to the Yozi. You could destroy everything I’ve worked for.”
Scylla nodded, her expression somber. “I understand your concerns,” she said. “But I assure you, my intentions are pure. I seek to understand the third eye, and to protect Creation from the darkness that threatens to consume them. I need your help, Urza. Your knowledge, your experience, your understanding of the occult”
Urza hesitated, torn between her instincts and a newfound curiosity. Scylla’s words resonated with her own desire for purpose, for a chance to make amends for the darkness that had stained her past.
“And what do I gain from this?” Urza asked, her voice laced with suspicion.
Scylla’s lips curled into a faint smile. “An ally,” she replied. “I will teach you about the Kin much more than just observing, I will guide you in their society… you won’t have to steal my form and let’s face it, it wouldn’t work, you don’t have the gift of speech like I do, you potential is elsewhere and I will make good use of it, we want the same thing, we want to stop these dark creatures. And perhaps, even a sense of belonging, a place where you can finally be yourself, without fear or judgment.”
Urza’s heart skipped a beat. Belonging. It was a concept she had long since abandoned, a distant dream that had faded into the mists of her traumatic childhood. But Scylla’s offer, however tentative, ignited a spark of hope within her.
With a deep breath, Urza met Scylla’s gaze, her own eyes filled with a mixture of trepidation and resolve. “I’ll help you,” she said, her voice firm. “But don’t mistake my cooperation for trust. I’m watching you, Scylla. And if you betray me, or the Creation, you’ll regret the day you spared my life.”
A flicker of understanding passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the fragile alliance they had forged. They were both predators, both survivors, both haunted by the ghosts of their pasts. But in that moment, beneath the canopy of the ancient forest, they found common ground, a shared purpose that transcended their differences.
Scylla chose the form that Urza would take within the tribe. It was a necessity that she did with extreme regret, but she knew it would be necessary. In KIn there was a very important family, the family of snail shell sculptors, the youngest daughter was useless, she would have already been disowned and killed for her failure if it weren’t for the influence of her family. Her survival hinges on the fragile thread of nepotism, a cruel irony that underscores the tribe’s hypocrisy. She is a pawn for her family, her life spared only because of her family’s influence, not her own merit. The girl’s delicate hands, though seemingly perfect for sculpting, betray her lack of talent. She is a symbol of unfulfilled potential, a constant reminder of the Kin’s disdain for weakness. Her beauty, a cruel mockery of her lack of ability, serves only to highlight her inadequacy in the eyes of her tribe. The family was going against Kin tradition to protect one of their members, although Scylla understood the family’s pain, she knew that anyone else would not have the same chance and Urza taking the form of that girl would have much more to add to the tribe. So Urza with help of a opportunity created by Scylla took the girl heart.
The once unremarkable girl, now “possessed” by Urza, blossomed into a prodigy. Her delicate hands, once clumsy and hesitant, now moved with the precision and grace of a master sculptor. The Snail Shell family, once burdened by her lack of talent, now reveled in her newfound abilities. She became their pride, a shining example of their lineage’s artistic prowess.
Scylla, ever the manipulator, used this transformation to her advantage. She presented herself as a benevolent influence, a mentor who had unlocked the girl’s hidden potential. The Kin, easily swayed by displays of power and success, embraced Scylla’s presence even more, the girl’s remarkable progress assigned to Scylla. Urza, blinded by her own mission and her only focus being on the demonic influence, failed to see the subtle strings Scylla was pulling. She reveled in the newfound respect and admiration, unaware of the political machinations unfolding around her.
The Kin’s deep-rooted familial bonds fascinated Urza. The unwavering loyalty and fierce protectiveness they displayed towards their own stood in stark contrast to the isolation and neglect she had experienced in her own childhood. She found solace in their interconnectedness, a sense of belonging she had long yearned for.
Casamento
One evening, under the soft glow of the moon, Scylla shared a startling revelation with Urza. She confessed that she was not, in fact, born a woman. The Kin, she explained, viewed magic as an inherently feminine force, intrinsically linked to Aeliana. Men who displayed magical talent were often stripped of their masculine identity, forced to adopt a more feminine identity and pronouns. Scylla, despite her outward appearance, was one such individual. She explained that was more complex than being a woman, she was still a male for reproductive purposes.
Urza was taken aback by this revelation. The conversation left her feeling confused and unsettled, unsure of its purpose or implications. But pretty soon the intention of this conversation became clear to her.
Scylla, seizing the opportunity presented by Urza’s newfound prominence, revealed her true intentions. She expressed her desire to marry Urza, emphasizing that their union would be met with favor by the elders, given her elevated status and the respect her family possessed and the position that she now has in the family. Scylla painted a picture of the advantages that marriage would bring, highlighting its significance within Kin culture and the newfound freedoms it would afford Urza. She could finally step out from under her family’s shadow, gaining autonomy and the ability to move more freely within the tribe and even outside. Scylla even offered her assistance in navigating these newfound liberties, and help her sneak out when they lived together.
However, Scylla also reminded Urza of the responsibilities that came with marriage. It was not simply a matter of convenience or social advancement; it entailed commitment and adherence to the Kin’s customs and traditions. Scylla, for whom marriage was a sacred bond, never entered into such unions lightly.
Urza, her focus still fixed on her mission and the secrets she sought to uncover, remained largely indifferent to the prospect of marriage. To her, it was merely a role to play, a means to an end. If it facilitated her investigations and granted her greater prestige within the tribe, then she was willing to accept it. The complexities of Kin relationships and the emotional weight of marriage held little significance for her at that moment. Her priority was to gain the trust of the Kin, to delve deeper into their secrets, and to fulfill her mission, whatever the cost.
The love between Urza and Scylla was a slow burn, kindled amidst the complexities of their shared deception and the harsh realities of the Kin’s world. The intimacy of their marriage, the shared laughter and quiet moments of companionship, gradually eroded the walls Urza had built around her heart. She found herself drawn to Scylla’s unwavering strength, her fierce loyalty to her people, and the quiet wisdom that lay beneath her stoic exterior.
Scylla, in turn, witnessed Urza’s transformation firsthand. She saw the once-aloof outsider evolve into a respected member of the tribe, a skilled sculptor, and a devoted mother. Urza’s love for the Kin, once a carefully crafted facade, had blossomed into genuine affection. And Scylla, who had always valued authenticity and integrity, couldn’t help but reciprocate those feelings.
The path to love was not a straight one for Scylla and Urza. It was a winding road, fraught with danger, mistrust, and the lingering shadows of their pasts. But amidst the chaos and uncertainty, a bond began to form, a connection that transcended their initial animosity and blossomed into something beautiful and unexpected.
Their shared mission to understand and protect the Kin became the cornerstone of their relationship. Working side-by-side, they faced countless challenges, their lives intertwined in a dance of survival and discovery. Scylla’s unwavering compassion and belief in Urza’s potential chipped away at the walls she had built around her heart. Urza, in turn, found herself drawn to Scylla’s quiet strength and unwavering determination.
As they delved deeper into the Kin’s life, they shared stories of their pasts, their voices hushed in the darkness of their shared sanctuary. Scylla spoke of her childhood struggles, the weight of expectations, and the sacrifices she had made in the name of duty. Urza, in turn, revealed the horrors of her upbringing, the neglect and abuse that had shaped her into the hardened survivor she had become.
In these moments of vulnerability, they found solace in each other’s company, a shared understanding that transcended words. They were two broken souls, finding comfort in the warmth of shared pain and the promise of a brighter future.
Their love was not a whirlwind romance, but a slow burn, fueled by mutual respect and admiration. Scylla’s unwavering faith in Urza’s potential inspired her to strive for something more, to embrace the light that flickered within her. Urza, in turn, found herself drawn to Scylla’s gentle spirit and unwavering compassion.
They challenged each other, pushed each other to grow, and celebrated each other’s triumphs. They were partners in every sense of the word, their bond strengthened by the trials they faced and the victories they achieved.
Primeira Gravidez
The news of her pregnancy hit Urza like a tidal wave, a tumultuous mix of joy and overwhelming fear. The tiny life growing within her was a beacon of hope, a testament to the love she shared with Scylla. But the echoes of her past, the haunting memory of Anya’s lifeless body, cast a long shadow over her happiness.
The hormonal surges, a relentless tide of emotions, amplified her anxieties. She found herself withdrawing from Scylla, her usual stoicism replaced by a volatile mix of anger and despair. The fear of losing another child, of trusting someone only to have them ripped away, consumed her thoughts.
One evening, as Scylla gently caressed her growing belly, Urza lashed out, her voice raw with anguish. “Don’t,” she hissed, swatting Scylla’s hand away. “Don’t get attached. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
Scylla’s expression softened, her eyes filled with concern. “Urza,” she said softly, reaching out to cup Urza’s face. “I understand your fear. I know the pain of loss, the betrayal of trust. But I’m not him. I won’t let anything happen to you or our child.”
Urza’s resolve crumbled, tears streaming down her cheeks. “But what if you can’t protect us?” she sobbed, her voice choked with emotion. “What if something happens, and I lose you both?”
Scylla pulled Urza into a gentle embrace, her warmth a comforting contrast to the coldness that had seeped into Urza’s heart. “We’ll face it together,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm to Urza’s wounded spirit. “I won’t let the darkness take anything else from us. I promise.”
When the child was born, she did not have a third eye, but at no point did Scylla show Urza any negative reaction to this, it was just the two of them when the baby was born. Urza felt a deep relief at not seeing the mark of Makarius on the little one and simply passed his hand over the baby’s forehead and placed the mark of a closed third eye and said that he would give the mutation when it was appropriate, this surprised Scylla, who accepted, at once. Unless she would keep it to herself and not reveal it to anyone.
The birth of Urza’s first child, a son they named Caine, was a transformative experience. The raw intensity of childbirth, the visceral connection to the cycle of life and death, awakened something primal within her. The overwhelming love she felt for Caine, a love untainted by the darkness of her past, filled the void in her heart that she had long believed to be irreparable.
Motherhood softened Urza’s edges, revealing a tenderness she had kept hidden for so long. She poured all her love and devotion into Caine, determined to give him the childhood she had been denied. She reveled in the simple joys of watching him grow, his first smile, his first steps, his first words.
Scylla was a constant source of support, her love for Urza and Caine a steady flame that warmed their lives. She shared in the joys and challenges of parenthood, her gentle spirit a calming presence amidst the chaos of raising a child.
Apartir daqui a Urza vai sair mais da tribo agora que já está mais conectada, o hospital será construído junto da nova embaixada. Vou começar a reparar o workshop do Ubiraci. Começar a entender a natureza da conexão de Makarius e os Kin, o principal é como fechar essa porta de acesso.
**