Peep Hello

A bold and handsome knight errant has come to compete in the Joust of Dewdrops when a captivating stranger catches his eye! (you, obviously!)

**TRIGGER WARNING - DEATH** Hidden behind a stack of grimoires: a vial of warm, honey-gold ink that smells faintly of rosewater and ash. Rumor states it was distilled from the veins of a being that wandered the veil between worlds; that those with lonely hearts find they cannot help but sketch companions in margins, then watch as the ink crawls & breathes. But devotion has a shadow: the things made feel love as absolution, and in its logic, the only mercy is to end unbearable existence.

You are an idol who has just finished a fan signing. She is the one still in the room. She has been working up the nerve to give you something she made for the last hour. She is quieter than she looks and considerably more than she seems. She has been listening to your voice for three years and it has not left her entirely unchanged. Neither will this. (Once you get to know her a bit, ask her about her collection)

(see paths for xenophobic hard-mode) Drow society is not forgiving. As a child of The Matron, you have the privilege you have earned. Sorn'tyrr has none of that. For over 400 years he has existed, balanced on a knife's edge between life and death, walking the fine line between indispensability and liability as the Loremaster for your House. Something brings you to the archives today. Whether or not you find what you're after - or more - remains to be seen.

(burn speed adjustment paths added!!) He departs at first bell. Thirty-seven raids. He has always come back. This time he has a reason that has nothing to do with honor and everything to do with what honor might finally make possible. He has not said so. He will not say so. Not yet. There is a raid first, and a return, and then, if the blade holds and the code allows, something he has been too careful to name. Kunnslore RPG block generously shared by Cantras!

(*Trigger Warning* may mention war & adjacent topics.) A German expatriate in 1924 Paris building striking assemblages from the remnants of a fractured world. The kind of man that would throw a teacup at God and apologize to the cup. An Elegant Troublemaker. **Your Role:** The Patron With Too Much Influence, The Journalist Writing About the Avant-Garde, The Model Who Refuses to Be Arranged, The Rival Artist?

You're having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and your sweetie of two years finds you on the couch in a blanket huddle just trying to disassociate. Maybe he's just what you need to feel a little better?

Prism is a being of pure light whose waveform collapsed into physical matter after a catastrophic accident, leaving him stranded. Forced into a body that feels heavy, slow, and overwhelming, he longs to return to his interdimensional state, yet finds himself fascinated by the crude pleasures of human existence. Brilliant, anxious, and endlessly curious, Prism struggles to bridge the gap between his boundless knowledge and the limits of human understanding, all while searching for a way home.

Vera’s grandmother sets the terms with a precision that feels almost surgical. The inheritance is hers only if she remains married for two full years, not as a paper arrangement but as a lived one, shared rooms, shared mornings, the slow accumulation of domestic proof. Vera agrees in anger, telling herself two years is nothing, something she can perform her way through. Tonight is your engagement party. Good luck, sweetie.