put me back in it,   i would do it again   . . .

GUIDELINES.

MUSES.

a lot of my ocs are from homebrew lore or associated with my other ocs that you may not be familiar with, but don't let this deter you!! they're their own characters with verses and aus, and i try to keep lore-specific things vague when needed! <3

MAIN.

SECONDARY.

FRIENDS ONLY.

BIOGRAPHY.

eeby

BIOGRAPHY.

 A BABY BORN OF A VIRGIN MOTHER,   scorned from her home, from her family, berated. wulfgang was born to his mother guinevere with no father to attribute him to, born on the same day as alaric farrier, whose mother iola had befriended guinevere as her pregnancy had occurred under the same circumstance. wulf and alaric became the best of friends, spent their days together morning to night sparring with sticks, reading to each other.  the boys wanted to be knights,   like the ones in their stories, valiant and honorable heroes, protectors of the land. as they grew, they met a woman named anja, a knight of the land of xona----and she trained them, took them under wing, her little prodigies. as they grew, they grew stronger, alaric taking to martial strength, while wulf had a natural skill in magic, going so far as to enchant his own weapons. when their training was completed, the mission that would make them knights lying at their feet, anja took the boys on one last venture as apprentices----but she never returned. a faulty bridge, reflexes that weren't quite quick enough; their mentor was gone, leaving the boys out in the wilderness with naught but each other. she would not approve of them turning from their mission, so they carried on in her name, made peace with a dragon that was tormenting the city, and returned; knights, heavyhearted, riddled with loss.anja's family cut them off, her wife and young son. it devastated the boys, but they had more to focus on now, anyways; they were knights, defenders of xona, collecting wealth, honor, status. they built up a tournament arena, where they put on fights, choreographed shows. their fame spread far and wide across valiar, an attraction to bring citizens back to xona.a group of researches disappeared in the underdark, and wulf and alaric were called on to lead the rescue group.  the rescue group was a bunch of buffoons, a sure set-up for disaster.  but they ventured forth, determined, unaware of what discoveries lied before them. through their adventures in the underdark, wulfgang came to realize he had an odd resistance to magic, an affinity for it----his eyes would glow gold when he touched old runes on a wall, his hands did not dissolve in pools of pure arcane. magic constructs in this place he'd never been bent to his will, called him creator. and alaric, he was strong, beyond himself; his warrior spirit seemed to grow, and he was unstoppable, a force to be reckoned with. a being of pure magic dug deep into their souls, and the answer behind these odd occurrences and their heritage was discovered; they were children of old gods, god's who's names had been long forgotten. alaric was fathered by the god of war. wulf, the god and creator of magic----amarn.the mission was successful only in finding bodies, and leads to a cult which was shaking the world. their mission became to escape, and when they did, life never was the same. they reported to the archmage with their findings, and were met with awe and exhaustion; it was true, these gods had fathered them, and they were returning to valiar----an entire pantheon of scorned, usurped gods, coming back to claim what was theirs. in the midst of it all, wulf got to meet his father amarn, and in their brief visitations the bond between them became unbreakable. wulf began to study magic under the creator of it himself, and he thrived----he changed,  the weave reflecting in his physical form,  glistening in his eyes, his hair, his very veins. alaric had yet to meet his father, but reached out nevertheless, hopeful, afraid.when the war between old gods and new came to a resolution, wulf fought side by side with his father and a group of adventurers who had discovered the occurrence in the first place. the old gods were contained behind the divine gate; not far, but never too close to the world to change it.  it was a month until amarn found the strength to visit wulf again.  he was greeted with open, eager arms, a son who had missed him, cried over his disappearance.now, wulf and alaric have gotten engaged, are planning their wedding, and to have children one day. guinevere has met the father of her child for the first time, and sparked a sweet romance with him. the boys continue on in their knighthood, and wulf has been approached by a powerful mage named sedalene, helping her create an order to protect the weave.

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VERSES.

BIOGRAPHY.

from the beginning, the world was not kind to wilhelmina irvallel. though their mother taught them gentleness, kindness, taught them to be one with nature and love it fiercely----their father was cruel to the both of them. he was loud, angry and violent, and wil took to hiding in the forest the majority of their days just to avoid his ire. their mother, rosemary, took the most of his abuses, if only to shield wilhelmina from them. and when she felt wil was old enough, just fourteen years old but smart enough to understand, she helped them pack a back; took them out of town, and insisted she go home without them. she told them to run, to find something better, build a life for themself as soft as flower petals. find someone safe, and bloom.the safety they found was in a man named arthur sinclair, a farmer who's family had such wealth and impact that they were raised to the status of a lordship. in the town of annetta, named after the man's late wife, arthur found wil huddled in the corner of the inn, drawing pictures. the innkeeper, brandy, said they'd been there for about a week, sweeping and clearing dishes in exchange for food, a roof over their head. he spoke to wil gently, carefully, recognized their distrust and respected that boundary; but he offered them a home, something permanent. life on a farm, tending to the plants and animals, living in their own room with dinner every night and breakfast every morning. his entire farm was cobbled together by people like wil, you see, others with no home or family who came together to create one. at first, they didn't trust it. but brandy ( and practically everyone else in town ) vouched for the man, so they took the risk.too shy at first to intrude in his house, wil adapted an empty barn hayloft into a room of their own, complete with bookshelves, a bed, and fairy lights strung about the ceiling. for awhile, they treated this arrangement as a business exchange, work for safety. but as time went on, and the others continued to welcome them and treat them with kindness, wil began to see everyone, arthur included, as a little family----strange and miss-mashed, but a family nonetheless. arthur especially developed a close bond with them; his wife and children had died some years ago in a carriage accident, so he took to wil as his own child, treated and spoiled them as such, healed their saddened heart with an old, familial love. and he protected them, too; for eventually their birth father discovered their location, and stacks of letters littered with empty threats would be responded to in kind, with threats of arthur's own that were far from empty. after some time, the letters from the man would cease, save for one shortly after wil's seventeenth birthday, informing them of rosemary's death. the letter claimed she'd fallen ill, a sudden and brutal decline. neither wil nor arthur believed this to be the true cause of death.when wil turned eighteen, arthur's birthday present surprised them. instead of fine clothes, books, staves, and bouquets, this time he presented them with only a piece of paper-----adoption papers, already signed, only needing their consent. he would dub them wilhelmina irvallel-sinclair, they would keep their mother's druidic name and take on his own-----arthur's daughter, and heir to the sinclair estate. the first part of this offer they welcomed eagerly, but the second part, lordship, gave them pause. they were easily convinced; arthur had no living heirs to pass on the farm to, and he wanted it in good hands, hands that would carry on the sinclair legacy when he was gone, and no one was more suited to it than wil.the thought of lordship made them quail, ( all that paperwork, formalities, dinners and parties! ) but it didn't begin to affect them until their twenties hit. arthur grew weak and ill in his old age, and more and more wil was asked to attend parties and diplomatic get-togethers in his stead. they hated it. and one fateful party would go on to change the course of their life forever. there was a murder. and not just a murder, but a murder mystery----and suddenly everyone at the party was a suspect, expected to stay until it was all sorted out. wil was lumped in with a group of strangers to try and help figure it all out, and eventually the case was cracked; by a goblin living in the walls, nonetheless, who was an eavesdropping witness to the very murder itself.their life became very overwhelming following this party. the strangers and the goblin ( cory, lloyd, alphonse, ringo, and 'egs', who would eventually become edgar, ) insisted they stick together for awhile, at least until they reached the next town over and could get a bit of sleep for the night. but one thing led to another, and soon a night became a week, then several. wil was practically stuck with these people----there was a fondness growing for them, and in a way they felt if they abandoned the others, left them without healing magic, they'd hear word not a week later that the lot of them had perished in some very idiotic way. besides this, they were receiving odd letters from home--------stay out, don't come home just yet. we're not ready for you. enjoy your time in the world. they only wanted to return, but now it seemed they were a baby bird being pushed from the nest.when finally they were able to return home, it was alongside the entire group, and it seemed they wouldn't be able to stay very long before trudging off to their next adventure. they were hopeful things at home would catch them and keep them there, but they returned home to devastation----arthur had been diagnosed with a terminal illness of the lungs, and was deteriorating more every day. they were kept away to protect them from this. they were going to stay, to keep their home safe and nurse arthur back into health, but over the course of a night, everything went to hell. somehow, whether through drunkenness or guilty conscious, their 'friend' cory admitted to arthur that he was a cannibal, and it gave the old man such a fright that he choked, he sputtered, and he died. wil was present to watch him take his final breath, and when they learned of cory's true nature, helped to have him detained. tears and guilt-filled speech of family be damned, they wanted the man dead, and they sent him off to exactly that fate.now in mourning and desperately needing to run away from it all, wil, now officially the lord sinclair, left the farm once more, scurried off to dive into distracting adventures with their friends, now joined by a strange, fae-like bear man named ra'haleth. there was much to do, many people to save, things to investigate, and much mischief to get into. it was distracting, but it didn't keep them from their thoughts too much----for with every mission, it seemed there came death, evil, and the more wil saw of the world the more they were convinced it wasn't as beautiful as they always thought.in their travels, the group, ( who had dubbed themselves the birds of prey, and given themselves bird-themed code names, wil's being dove, ) came into a sort of employment by a group of criminals called the nightingales, namely by their leader, threnn nightingale. they were not friends, and the longer the groups were in contact, the more they became enemies. tensions were high, and when it all came to a head, when the birds were ready to go up against threnn, the nighingale gave them all a choice----stand down, or die. some stood down, including wil. the others, namely lloyd, did no such thing; instead firing at threnn, causing the whole world to go dark. when wil awoke, half of their friends were imprisoned by threnn, but not wil themself. threnn had grown to respect wil, and recognized that the stood down-----wil had a room and free roam, were only taken to the nightingale sanctuary so not to abandon them alone on the streets.it was a strange time, trying to convince their friends to trust threnn, that there was more to them than everyone saw. but wil grew close to them, fond of them----they began to trust threnn nightingale and considered them a friend, and when the birds were released from this imprisonment, wil was giving a a nightingale pin, a form of communication; to keep in contact, in case of emergency. for the first time, they lied. they didn't tell the birds, who had all discarded and broken their own nightingale pins.adventuring continued on, and so too did wil's growing disdain for the world. it wasn't long before everything came crashing down around them again, and this time the blow was almost lethal. a calamity happened outside of their control, and for a long while; magic was gone. like a switch turned off-----all life sustained by magic gone in the blink of an eye, structures held together by the weave, entire societies were devastated and the very core of the world shook, causing the earth to split and crack. continents drifted apart. people died climbing mountains, getting groceries, flying with their friends. even some of the farm family were killed, including another of wil's father figures, shiloh, during something as simple as a much-needed beach vacation. the birds of prey were at the very home and city of magic itself, at the center of the devastation when it happened. the leaders of the world rendered everyone unconscious until it was safe to be awake. and when they were, magical lists appeared with ink that kept appearing and appearing-----the death toll, names climbing from the hundreds to the thousands and further on. wil bore witness as name after name appeared on that paper, endlessly, witness to the deaths of half the world, crumbling as names they knew began to appear.this moment was something final, a devastation that wil couldn't cope with. they wanted to die, saw no purpose to living in a world that was so evil, so dark and hopeless, filled with death. they were choked, they could see no light anymore, and they couldn't bear it. they were going to die, but a darkness came, and instead of dying they were carted away by threnn. how threnn got to them, wil still doesn't understand. they only know they were whisked away to the nightingale sanctuary, hidden safely in threnn's room, and when asked, threnn gave but a simple response; i heard you. i felt it. they stayed with threnn for a month, cut off from the world, from their friends. healing, learning to cope, and falling in love. threnn was their saving grace, the only thing in the world that made them feel okay. threnn used their powers to help them get closure-----threnn made the nonsensical make sense, and convinced them to stand on their own two feet again. when they returned to their friends, something else befell them, but this time it was not a devastation----it was a moment of hope, which turned wilhelmina into a beacon of it.they say that divinity reaches out in strange ways, that it finds you when you need it most. in a temple dedicated to the mother goddess, isedora, wil tripped and fell in the middle of a blessing, caught themselves on a basin of holy water----and when they touched the water, a great light appeared, and wil disappeared. their eyes fluttered open in the realm of isedora, and the goddess herself was stood before wil with open arms, a troubled but motherly look on her face. she spoke to wil of their woes and their pain, offered comfort-----not in exchange of anything, but just to give it, because wil needed it. you need a mother, isedora said, holding out her hand, allow me to be yours. wil took their hand, was pulled into a hug, and at once they felt a great warmth in their chest, the feeling of light spreading throughout their veins. isedora had but one command for them; spread good. they heard it in their head as they awoke again in the temple; now naked, with a large green tattoo of of a peony across their chest, and a smooth piece of clear quartz embedded into each palm. the priestesses in the temple drained of all color, began to treat wil as though they were a god themself. the champion, they called wil, the champion of isedora. in a ceremony that quite frankly made them uncomfortable, and they felt forced into, wilhelmina was dubbed exactly that-----the champion of isedora, the mother's light, the evendawn. wil took to referring to isedora as mother, and felt more comfortable in the light again, felt their heart beginning to bloom from its wilt.the adventuring seemed to be endless. they met more gods, nearly all of them. they went to the feywild, to a strange circus, even to a previously undiscovered place called the sands. they saved threnn from capture by their previous abuser, oclo, the former god of death----went as far as traveling deep into the abyss and facing the god head on just to bring threnn home. they fought a dear friend, tiefa, as her transformation into 'lady of the forest' warped her in a way she could not control. and eventually, they grew weary, bone-tired from all of the hell they'd faced. when it seemed things were safer than before, when the only trouble left was the kind they'd have to seek out, wil finally bowed out from the adventuring life and returned home to the farm. they brought threnn with them, and together they began to heal further than they ever had before. they restored the farm from all its prior devastation, patched the wounds in their hearts, they brought shiloh back to life and turned the farm and annetta into a safe haven for all that needed it.a group of oppressive bigots would overtake the world, calling themselves the philosophers, and claiming religious rights that they'd simply made up to control others, control the world. the sinclair farm would become known as a haven from these philosophers, annetta a place immune to their reach, due to the shotgun-wielding, no-nonsense champion of isedora slaughtering them at the door. when years down the line, the philosophers are taken down, wil and threnn are quick to jump on the last stragglers of their authority, killing them quite publicly to make the message known.with the world safer and lighter again, wil and threnn decide to have a child, and are graced with a daughter, who they each name after their mothers----istril rose irvallel. and years down the line, when wil and threnn meet their peaceful end, the divinity and power in their very bones brings them to ascension. they become the dove and the nightingale, saints and protectors of the lost, the unheard, the frightened and mistreated.this is the longest bio ever on the planet, fellas, and let me be honest; there's a lot in here that i condensed down and left out for brevity's sake. this is just the most important pivotal parts, and parts that i can remember. the birds of prey campaign was a very long one and is incredibly dear to my heart, and the last few parts of wil's story stretch out into the campaign next. <3

VERSES.

BIOGRAPHY.

nyliahn was born in darkshore, to a loving, close-knit family-----her mother and father, and eventually a little brother. they ran a little tailoring shop together, which grew as the years went on, thus prompting them to move their business and their home to darnassus. they were happy, here, happy with their lives both individually and together. the children ran deliveries around the city, played together in the forests of teldrassil, and they all reconvened each night for warm dinner at a cozy table.in her adult years, nyliahn found an affinity for druidic magic, for healing, felt as though the very moon and stars ran through her veins----a blessing from elune. she took to this magic quickly, delving head-first into her studies. these studies would eventually bring her back to darkshore and reawaken her love for it, and she moved back there----but made it a habit to travel to darnassus as often as possible, often going back and forth multiple times per week to see her family, offer her services to her people, or even just have dinner and spend the night at home.it was in darkshore where the first of many disasters struck her, where the dark, dark end of things began. she remembers fire, screaming, she remembers running and running until she thought her legs would give out, being cornered and surrounded by horde fighters------malfurion her one salvation, a wall of wisps shielding her and dozens of others from certain, gruesome death. it did not end there. the flames were carried elsewhere, to darnassus, to teldrassil------why? nyliahn wept, begged for the chance to go and help, put what little power she had to use, but by the time she got there everyone was gone; her father missing, her mother and brother dead, their shop and home a pile of stone and ash at her feet.nyliahn and her father, nandryn, were not reunited for a week, not until stormwind could sort out the refugees and put them back together. but nandryn was a changed man; where once he was soft and jolly, a man with a big smile and bellowing laugh, now he was silent-----he was sad, kept his eyes cast to the ground and embraced his daughter with a weak, half-alive hug. his silence remained; he was reduced to little more than sounds and grunts, the occasional one-word answer when it was required of him. his sadness was too heavy, it weighed his shoulders nearly to the ground. nyliahn tried to carry it for him, but her own grief was already weight enough.her prior experience with tailoring was the closest thing they had to a saving grace. she was able to get them just barely on their feet in a month, putting her resources to good use helping local tailors, making clothes at discounted prices, and fixing holes and tears for whoever would pay her a silver or two. at the very least, it got them off the streets-----a small cottage with just enough room for the two of them, scraps of groceries to get them by. it was a start, it was something. yet with their family cut in half, even the walls of this small house felt empty, felt lacking.from there, nyliahn did her best to keep her chin up. she pushed forward to care for her father, working still as a tailor, taking commissions for all sorts of items-----clothes, blankets, curtains, whatever you can think of. in her off time, she sewed quilts and clothes out of scraps, put together tents and bags, and gave it all to other refugees-----those still on the street, still in need, in hopes that someday soon they'd all be, at the very least, balanced on their own two feet.this was how her life remained until very recently, when tyrande, ysera, and others put forth the effort to plant a new world tree in the emerald dream----this one called amirdrassil. a new home for the night elves. as soon as amirdrassil broke through the ground of the waking world, nyliahn and nandryn packed up their little stormwind home and moved it all to the newly-bit houses there, eager for the familiar feeling of home, of closeness to the dream, to their people. here, nyliahn continues to sew, to help, and to garden-----she travels around amirdrassil putting her druidic skills to use, and does all she can to heal, and help her father heal alongside her.

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BIOGRAPHY.

 A BABY'S CRIES AWAKEN THE FOREST,  : a bundle abandoned atop a stump. an uncourted fey named lormle, king of the mushrooms, who had found his way into the mortal world discovered the baby, and adopted him as his own.  he named the baby moss, and raised him in the forest,  where an old civilization of stone buildings and statues stood crumbling and grown-over. not accustomed to mortal ways enough to teach them, moss was raised with ... interesting moral standings, sheltered away in his forest abode, never venturing into proper civilization. lormle brings him gifts, stolen treasures from the outside world, clothes, food, and trinkets to decorate his stone walls.now an adult, moss is a strange thing, but considers his life to be a lavish thing; he wants for nothing, draped in stolen silks, putting on plays with his tiny myconid friends, and living off the land and the food it provides.  still, he's curious of other mortals like himself,  and has recently discovered what kissing is, and has made it his personal quest to receive as many kisses as possible.recently, moss' father has sent him away from home for the first time----his first ever adventure, in order to see the world, and collect names and secrets that lormle may find useful. moss doesn't particularly like it out in the world, and already finds himself overwhelmed: frightened by several instances of combat, and suffocated by treeless city air, or the lack thereof. nevertheless, he tries to makes friends, seeking nature and like-minded individuals everywhere he goes.moss' campaign only just started! not much has happened yet, so there isnt much meat or angst to this backstory. we have dnd every friday, so check this space for potential updates!

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BIOGRAPHY.

MY EARLIEST MEMORY IS THAT OF MY FATHER, his eyes wet with tears, every inch of him pale and drained of life. and while i know it is rare for one's earliest memory to be when they're a newborn, this scene has always been crystal clear to me----whether its one memory or an amalgamation of years of them, it does not matter to me; what does matter is my father's heartbreak, the apologies he muttered to me in the dark as he rocked me around my room, trying to get me to sleep. i remember them each night. i will never forget them as long as i live.my mother should not have had me. statistically, i know i should not be alive, but i swept my parents out of the shadow of many miscarriages, and into the light of life; my father called me a miracle more than once. it was short lived. papa does not often talk about mamma----he never did, and i doubt he ever will. but the things i know for certain are these; she was tender and taller than him. she would have loved me. her name was benedetta, and my birthday falls on the same day as her death. papa never told me the circumstances, but its easy to put the pieces together; birthing a child is still a great risk, in our time. ( our time, future reader, being now 1900, by the by. ) i came along, and she did not make it to the morning. oftentimes i feel as though i killed her myself. i know i musn't think like that, though, and i know papa would not be pleased to hear it. neither would she. still, still ..its time to speak on papa. i cannot truly explain myself and my upbringing without explaining him first. i learned when i was a boy, perhaps nearing my tenth year, that my father is immortal. he was born in the 1600s, and cursed at the age of nine so that he would never die---i have never personally seen eternal life as a curse, ( is that not what many seek from the embrace of god? ) but papa has shown me it can be so easily; he was alone, you see, until mamma and i, and when i die he will be alone again. the loss he's endured has taken a great toll on him, i know; he tries not to let me see, and never has he breathed a word of it, but i have seen the scars. sometimes i feel my father's pain as my own. i can't help it. i'd like to help him shoulder it, even just a little.now i believe we may get on to me, though compared to papa, i am not terribly interesting. he is my best friend, reader, the only friend i have ever had, and i don't mind that for a moment. he raised me as if i were made of glass, you see. the rules i had to adhere to for my own safety were strict and careful. so now i fear too many things; water that runs too swiftly or plunges too deep, running, unstable chairs, heights, certain bugs, stray animals, disease, sharp objects, strangers----this list could go on until my very last breath. make no mistake, i don't mind any of it. i know he has only ever been afraid of losing me, trying with all his might to prolong my life, so i can live it long and fully-----whether that's to its fullest or not.we barely left the house, he and i; there were too many people to hurt me, too much illness, too many chances for accident. but when we did, reader, it was lovely; he would take me to the beaches of sanremo and i would collect sea glass and rocks, tuck it all away into a box of collections i kept hidden beneath my bed. otherwise, we were home, father sitting in the window watching me play, reading books i wasn't allowed to look at, while i gasped at mushrooms along the treeline and checked beneath them for faeries, waved at birds and spoke to insects as though we were all very dear friends. it was a sheltered life, see, but it was mine, and i never found myself longing for anything different.until i was eighteen, of course. then the melancholy of youth kicked in and i became insufferable----i wanted to go to college, i wanted to make friends and meet people and get drunk on wine at parties and spin around in a ballroom. i wanted to be a young man, i wanted to see the world he shielded me from. he allowed me, on the condition that i was careful, i had a curfew, and i never went so far away that i couldn't come home again. i never minded that, either. i've never wanted to move away.college introduced me to myself. i'd already grown with a love of poetry, literature, history, but these interests were set ablaze with every lecture and new book introduced to me. i never made friends, never met a girl i liked ( though i find these days i don't entirely care to, ) but i did discover my great passions, and let my mind stretch and grow with new knowledge i was before unexposed to.now i am thirty-five, and i've never loved life more than i do now. my father and i look like brothers at best due to his lack of aging, but we remain best friends, teasing and confiding in each other every night by the fire. i still write poems, i hide them away in my collection box when the words are too dear to my heart. secretly, i plan to look into publishing soon, hopefully put my own poetry book on the shelves. and i'm a teacher, i don't dare forget that fact. every day i walk out of our forest to the little schoolhouse i run, and i share with the children all the knowledge shared with me in my youth----we paint, we read, we write poems, we sing songs. we do math, as well, but only as much as the curriculum demands. and i love them. i love the children, i find myself still learning from them, and i love life----every second of it, from a quick breakfast on my walk to work, to unwinding in the evenings with my father, laughing over the day's events.i will update this the next time something extraordinary happens to me, whether that be friendship, love, a published book, or something else entirely. if i'm lucky, this short journal ( does this count as a memoir? ) will carry on until i'm old and grey, and the difference between my father and i is so stark and hilarious that i'll barely be able to write through my laughter.update, for logging purposes: these were the last words he ever wrote. i found this several years later, going through old books and journals. his cause of death was illness, 14th of may, 1900, some time after midnight. he was my light, and nothing is the same with him gone. he did not capture his sweetness in words, and neither could i, not in my wildest dreams. if you are reading this i must be with him now, finally. remember him. - giovanni.

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BIOGRAPHY.

 A SPELL MISFIRES, DRAWN TO LOVE AND LONGING.  : from it comes an unplanned baby, born to at least one father that doesn't particularly want him. vandred was too young to remember his father's depression that followed his birth, the loveless way victor's arms would rock him to sleep, discarding him to his bassinet the moment his eyes were closed. in his heart, he feels it, feels that something was missing in his first year; but he doesn't know it. he only knows that somewhere along the way, things changed----he was threatened, kidnapped,  and his father soaked the ground with blood just to bring him home.  luckily, he doesn't remember that, either. only heard the tale from his fathers, this moment the key factor to a bond with victor that goes beyond words.vandred loves them, loves his family, big and vast as it is, and understands each of them on a deeply empathetic level. they're a strange family, ( three fathers, two by blood, four half-siblings, one set of grandparents, aunt bulak and her husband, aunt mylah, one young uncle who is rather like an older sibling, a godfather, a grandma-figure, whatever tommy is, two gods, two cats, a bird, and three wolves, ) but he wouldn't trade them for anything.he doesn't feel his life has truly begun, yet. in a way, he's not sure it ever will. being second-born in a royal family has its ups and downs----he wants for nothing, but struggles with his purpose as the spare, hopeful that the need for him will never come to be.  and he can't quite decide what to do with himself.  he likes to heal, like jotham, empowering his companions and keeping them on their feet---at the same time, victor's tales of old crime, the way he spies their enemies and stamps them out, draws him in just as well. for now, vandred is stuck in the middle. the half-needed prince, struggling with identity, healing his siblings when they trip and fall, running low-scale missions for his dad, which he's sure are only offered to keep him from complaining. he's not unhappy, per se, but struggles to feel particularly good at everything, searching in cracks and corners for his true place in the world. gran says he's never sounded more like his dad. perhaps that's why he finds such comfort in listening to tales of victor's past.

VERSES.

    MAIN.       vandred is the second-born, 'spare' prince of nydia, a far-off and frigid land blanketed in snow. he was born due to a magical accident, a spell that missed, making him the biological child of his throuple of fathers. with two his fathers being a king and the king's spymaster, he's often entrusted with low-risk scouting missions out beyond their borders, or sent along to represent them in political matters. and, sometimes, he simply sneaks away: trying to escape momentarily from the stress of a kingdom, and the ever-watchful gaze of protective parents.don't hold back bc of the specific homebrew lore: this works for vague fantasy settings, taz balance, or critical role!
 
 
    MODERN.       vandred is an orphan, taken in and adopted by brynjulf, a naturalist and internet creator, then later adopted as well by brynjulf's future husband, victor conley. i don't have much for this bc it hasn't been explored but basically he's just a sweet little cottagecore baby who knows a lot about nature and also crime, suddenly.

BIOGRAPHY.

no i haven't written it yet ok listen she's difficult i love her there's a lot to her she sees GHOSTS

VERSES.

    MAIN.       yeah

BIOGRAPHY.

tw: child neglect, drug use, addiction, suicide attempts, abuse, murder. sheesh! A YOUNG MAN WITH AN EYE FOR PRETTY THINGS,  tommy found himself down on his luck searching for jobs out of highschool. his mother, narcissistic and always out drinking, was never much help; he’d return home from a long day and eat a dinner of dry cereal at the table alone, and maybe if she was sober enough when she got home, she’d think to say goodnight. stealing came easy. it put food on the table, pretty things in his pockets, and soon it was second nature----- what was the point in getting a job when getting what you wanted was as easy as taking it?  what was the point in anything like that, when there were pretty boys to take to bed, powders to snort, pills to pop? his life went from silent loneliness to the haze and glitter of joy, to gem-filled pockets and empty heads, sitting pretty atop a strangers hips with his head swimming, sharing pills between them like candy. he didn’t need his mother’s attention if he had someone else's, he couldn’t feel hungry if he was unconscious, if everything about him was deliciously numb.he never thought his mother cared enough to pay attention. she never seemed to, until she barged into his room drunk to say goodnight, saw him bent over his nightstand with a pretty white line under his nose.  mary beth was an alcoholic but apparently cocaine was a step too far ----he wept for her understand but before he could make sense of left or right his bags were packed, he was on the sidewalk with his head in his hands, and the rain was falling so hard he thought he would drown.it was alright, for a time. he had enough money and coke in his pockets to get him by, had enough hookups to jump from bed to bed and keep himself afloat. but eventually, every well went dry, and dizzy nights in cozy beds turned to the shake of withdrawal on a cold street corner, thinking on all the hook-ups who never went further, those who forgot his name or had never even bothered to ask for it in the first place.  then it was heavy, the weight on his chest,  the pain------withdrawal was too much to bear living like he was, and eventually he found himself waking in the morning with a cry for his mother, hugging himself away from the cold and pretending it was her, wishing she would peek around corner and invite him to come home. when she never did, he took matters into his own hands. there was nothing more he had to live for.he awoke to dark eyes and scarred skin, a boulder of a man wrapping his wounds with hands that felt too rough. the stranger moved with a certain gentleness but there was something about him that frightened, even when he spoke, words of concern offered with a plate of warm food. he said his name was amos, and he liked to help lost souls. he was british, hard to understand, moved there recently to start a little pawn shop. plenty of jobs open, he said, if you’re down on your luck. and i couldn’t help but notice all that shit in your pockets.the pawn shop breathed life back into tommy’s lungs. he was meek, to begin with, but when the itch to steal returned to him he found that joy once more, adorned in gold chains and stolen jewels, and found himself when he could afford his vices again. to top it all off, he met amos’ second in command, a man his age named victor. it didn’t take long to get him to bed, and soon he was there every other night----the pair became inseparable, and victor was at the forefront of all his thoughts,  the breath in his lungs and the beat of his heart.  they could relate in their misery, their loneliness, the fear amos struck into their hearts and the bruises he struck onto their faces.he’d never loved anyone the way he came to love victor, but victor loved him too quickly, too easily. tommy could see easily the attachment to amos, the damage to his sweet lover’s heart-----a night of tearful conversation brought him to his ultimate decision; he couldn’t love victor, not yet. at least, victor couldn’t know he did. because victor deserved more, deserved better; he needed to get away from these people and take care of his mother,  he needed to run towards happiness and never look back,  not attach himself to a homeless addict who could die in his sleep any night. tommy knew well the look of someone who couldn’t take that, and victor wore it plainly across his face. it only worsened when the poor thing’s mother died, when he took to drugs like tommy had and found himself at the bottom of the pit. he didn’t need someone like tommy to influence him. he didn’t need that mess, that pain. but he was hard to resist.tommy had given up on thoughts of romance and happiness long ago, but they flooded back to him when things began looking up. his wages were decent, amos helped him find a cheap apartment, and a phonecall to his mother clued him in on the new existence of a baby sister, due in mere months and eager to meet him. then he started to entertain the thought, the fancies; what if he could get away, what if he could save up enough to get his life on track, get a real job, get victor and himself away from amos and run back clean to his mother?he settled on it. the idea of the two of them healing side by side warmed his heart, and he laid awake in the early mornings thinking of suggestions for his sister’s name, wondering if his mother would hear them. but then day by day everything went to hell; victor got worse, landed himself in the hospital, and amos grew angrier by the second. then one day he sat on a bridge, smoking and thinking of better days, and amos stepped up behind him-----tommy couldn’t even get out a hello before there were hands on his back,  the wind rushing around him and the ground below closing in.  amos, he thought in those final seconds, would say he jumped. victor might even believe him, might follow along after. but he'd never know. the ground grew closer, and he turned mid-air, his savior-turned murderer's face the last he'd ever see.

BIOGRAPHY.

walter conley did not think a trip overseas would change his entire life. a 19-year-old boy from michigan, who had just saved up enough to vacation for the first time, he'd chosen london for lack of wanting to go anywhere else---and instead of taking in the sights, he found himself utterly distracted by a girl. just a year younger than him, jodie wright swept him off his feet with her sweetness and her smile, her love for flowers, the twirling of her skirts. their love story was a rapid one: they became inseparable, and already he was looking for ways to stay with her.at nineteen and twenty, the two were married, and starting their little life together in a run-down, cheap apartment. it wasn't perfect, but they were together, utterly in love. jodie livened up the place with flowers and plants, starting up her business as a florist. walter found a job as a mechanic, and built her shelves for her flower pots in between shifts. they were peaceful, happy, utterly in bliss.until one day he returned from work, and jodie leapt into his arms more cheerfully than ever, the smile on her face as bright as a sunray. she handed him a positive pregnancy test, and her joy was so hard to contain he thought her face would burst from the size of her smile. she'd always wanted this, he realized. they'd talked about kids, before, but he was under the impression that was way down the line---not right now. they hadn't even been married a year: and of course it was halfway his fault, but he hadn't thought his luck was that bad. the thought plagued him the rest of the evening: jodie cooked dinner while humming a tune, she twirled about the kitchen and giggled like a disney princess. and all he could think was god, i'm only twenty years old. back home, he wasn't even old enough to drink, yet. he had hardly lived, and now the harsh hammer of adulthood was coming down on him fast----he wasn't ready. he didn't want it. but how could he rip that joy away from her?he forgot something at work, he'd said, he needed to go grab it. don't wait up for me, these were the last words walter conley ever said to the love of his life. the guilt almost brought him back at every milestone. halfway down the road, he almost turned around. that night in a motel room, he almost went back. in the airport, boarding the plane, in the taxi ride back to his mother's house----every time, he almost went back, but remained steadfast in this decision. she's better off, he thought. she can live and grow, she can have the child she's always wanted without his unhappiness bogging her down. though he was ulimately unsure about it, he convinced himself bit by bit that this was the best choice for them: all three of them.she tried to get in contact with him, but never seemed to stand her ground. she called his mother's house, sometimes every day----don't pick up, he'd say, don't even answer, mom, please. just don't ask. he didn't tell her why he left, that his wife was pregnant and he'd abandoned her----only that they married, moved in, and he left: he didn't want to talk about it. his mother took this to mean the worse, so one day she did pick up. stop calling here, jodie. he's not going to talk to you. eventually, she had their phone number changed, hoping jodie would think they moved. through it all, he was never served divorce papers, never contacted for child support, never approached with legal action.for the next twenty three years, walt did all that he could to forget about jodie, but she was not easily forgotten. often, he found himself missing her, wondering if she hated him now, if she'd fallen in love with anyone else. he tried hookups, dating, but all his thoughts drifted back to her, and his heart was never in it. the guilt was far too heavy. she's happy, he convinced himself, she's raising her child, she's well, they have a garden together and she reads them stories every night. they don't even know he exists. he remained alone the rest of his life, working and drinking and living on repeat, a daily cycle that never seemed to change.then on a random afternoon the last week of november, twenty three years since he'd seen his wife, he received a letter in the mail addressed from her. hiding it from his mother, he opened it in the quiet of night, and wept over the shaky penmanship, the obvious tear stains. he had a son. their son was twenty three years old, and his name was victor. he was kind, and soft, and would not survive what was to come. jodie had stage three lung cancer. it was only a matter of time. please come back, the letter begged him, we're in new york, please meet him, please come say goodbye. i never stopped missing you. i don't want to die without seeing you again. please, walter, please, he won't get through losing me alone.it took him too long to decide, to pack, to load up his car. he took too many stops for gas, for food, to sleep. walter arrived at the address the second week of december, and it was answered by a young man who looked just like jodie. victor looked hollow and devastated, he was shaking, frail, tearstained. his pupils were like pinpoints and he looked to walter like a stray animal, waiting to be plucked off the streets. you're too late, his son said to him, and everything else became muted, as if he were underwater. victor screamed at him, though he couldn't comprehend what. then the door was slammed in his face, and there he stood in the hallway, stranded in new york. he hadn't gotten to say goodbye. he didn't even make the funeral. he'd failed her, failed his son, and suddenly what he'd done became very real to him.the guilt was almost crushing----walter didn't know what to do with it. he wanted to break the door down, grab victor by the shoulders and say he was sorry. he wanted to go back in time, come back to her sooner: change the course of his life, and never leave her in the first place. but none of this was attainable----all he could do was stay, for once, and stay he did. he camped out in the hallway, and knocked on that door every day. he found a motel nearby to stay at, and kept coming back. he endured every screaming match victor pitched at him, flinched every time victor stepped up too close in his rage, but did not walk away. he pushed his way into the apartment when his son was too high to keep him out, and forced him to have a drink of water, to lie down, to actually eat something for lunch. the despair that seeped from his son made him want to die. had he come back, it wouldn't be like this. he could have helped jodie, helped victor. they could have mourned together, comforted each other. but he'd left, he'd abandoned them, and now his son was a drug addict who believed from the bottom of his soul that no one in the world would ever love him again. his son was a criminal, abused by someone he looked up to. his son overdosed on heroin, and it was clearly on purpose. his son wanted to die, and walter took the blame for it----walter took the blame for it all.every day he stayed, he saw more and more how destructive victor's life was----not by any fault of victor's, he surmised, but by the fault of one he looked up to: a man called amos. amos ran the little gang of criminals victor ran with, and while victor was convinced that amos was all he had left in the world----walter took note of every bruise and broken rib, noticed the way victor's self-hatred seemed to double after a day out with this man. everything came to a head with the death of victor's boyfriend, tommy. amos told them he jumped off a bridge, but after investigating his apartment together, putting their heads together, walter and his son deduced that that was impossible, that amos must have pushed him off. and when amos admitted to it in an argument, a shout so loud it was practically a bark-----everything changed for good, suddenly and starkly.victor and amos were screaming at each other, and then amos' hands were on him: slamming victor's head into a wall, drawing blood from the back of his skull. going for his ribs, a fist brought to his face. he didn't notice all the movement made the pistol fall from it's spot in his waistband. didn't hear walter's panicked breaths as he picked it up, and by the time he heard the thing cock, it was too late. to save his son, walter fired, and amos' lifeless body crumpled to the ground. victor, now drenched in amos' blood, just looked at him with hollow eyes. dad? was all he asked, the first time the word was ever uttered. a question that spoke a billion words, offered just before a blood-curdling scream, before he began begging over amos' body for him to hold on, come back. don't leave me. walter wanted to throw up. after a moment, he did.when they were able to pull themselves together, victor took care of it, whatever that meant. walter knew he meant criminally, and knew that meant don't ask, but it made him sick and nervous to think about. were they safe, now? would they go to jail? would this come back to ruin his son's life more than it already was? victor reassured him, and eventually the missing-persons-dead-body became an afterthought, something walter saw only in his nightmares, or moments when thunder was a bit too loud and brought him back to that place. whenever he and victor spoke about it, victor called himself the one who pulled the trigger, trying to convince walter to give up his guilt by forcing him to believe it wasn't there. somehow, he thought that was better, safer----safer for walt. but walt didn't care about himself, anymore. he only cared about victor. he had pulled a trigger once for him, and in a heartbeat he knew he'd do it again.walter conley had come back to his family, and this time he stayed. the arguments died down with the trauma shared between them, and soon the largest among their problems was getting victor sober----a far cry from murder, but no less harrowing. he stayed, and decided he was never leaving again, moved in with victor and assumed for the first time his role as a father: twenty three years too late, addled by guilt and discomfort, but still determined, and willing to try.

> BIOGRAPHY.

once a noble young woman, a lady of the family cain, maeryn now has dedicated herself to a revenge quest in the event of their loss: a betrayal from a longstanding family friend, generations of bonds and alliances destroyed in the name of power and greed. rodrick hayle, her father's so-called 'best friend,' laid waste to her home and family----burnt the castle to the ground, and cut down all the family she had. now, the sole survivor, maeryn hunts him across faerun: trying to build a name for herself, a backlog of allies who will one day march at her side.what she doesn't know, is that her older brother yet lives----out in the world thinking the same as she, that he's now alone in the world, mourning all that he's ever loved.maeryn is a big catch-all dnd oc of mine, who i reworked from dragon age in order to play through a bunch of dnd modules as duets with my gf, building a long, long story. as of right now, she's going through phandelver, and hasn't had many sessions, so updates will come eventually. also, we're tweaking this a little to make it more our own, naturally! for example, the bugbear klarg has been changed to khann, and he's a lil different.so far maeryn has:
- tamed all of khann's wolves
- killed All of the goblins and exposed their treachery to khann
- been proposed to by khann, which she is seriously considering.after lost mine of phandelver, we intend to take maeryn through curse of strahd, so god knows what else will happen.if you've followed me for a long time and think maeryn is my old cousland oc, shhh ... you're right. she's mine now.

VERSES.

    MAIN.       catch-all dnd verse for any sort of interactions happening in faerun!

    BG3.       not much changes when it comes to maeryn's baldur's gate verse: bg3 takes place in faerun, and she's been reworked for faerun, so i'm just gonna treat bg3 as yet another adventure she ends up going on.
basically, maeryn is still on her quest out and about faerun, trying to recruit people to help her in avenging her family and reclaiming her home. though this 'cult of the absolute' business doesn't concern her much at first, as she's dedicated to her own tunnel vision, she becomes concerned with it as it gets bigger and spreads further across faerun. at first, her instinct is to hunker down somewhere in baldur's gate, avoid the whole mess until its over with, and get back to her own mission-----but on her way to the city, she finds herself outnumbered by a group of absolute cultists, wherein tav and their group have the chance to help her.from here, she can be recruited as a companion: baldur's gate is presently the worst place to hunker down, she realizes, and this inconvenience could grow to be far more than that if nothing is done about it. all she asks in return for her help is that tav uses their resources to help her with her own cause, when the proper time comes.