//The original group where I got the idea for the magic system Im working on. Think of these three as an introduction.

The world of Stellarum Lacera is built upon a foundation of trauma-made-manifest, where magic bleeds from psychological wounds as much as genetic lineage. Personal magical fields—ranging from the powerless Shortfall to the cataclysmic Dawn-Star—are not mere tools but extensions of the soul, warped by grief, guilt, and love twisted into weaponry. This system demands a brutal economy: power is paid for in blood, memory, and voice. To cast beyond one's means is to risk Overextension Syndrome—veins cooking, joints freezing, minds eroding—while bonding with a Magic Item unlocks dangerous Sub-Domains at the cost of lifespan or sanity. At the system's corrupted heart fester the Heresies, reality tumors born from individual or collective trauma, their very existence a perversion of the magic that spawned them. Here, strength is a curse, and survival is a pact written in scars and sacrifice.

Vladimir Chrisyakov moves like a flaw in reality itself—a golden specter whose fur bleaches to translucency at the ribs, revealing the glacial viscera beneath. Each breath mists the air with geometric precision, and the scent of frost-bitten bourbon lingers where he passes. His red scarf is the only warmth in his vicinity, a bloody contradiction against the decaying gold of his form. When he lifts [Abstracted Sun], the broadsword doesn't gleam—it hungers, its edge humming with a frequency that threatens to un-write the world.

Aleksander Antonov is a monument of scarred muscle and contained fury. At nearly seven feet, he dominates space, the scent of iron and leather clinging to his grey fur. Each trophy scar tells a story of violence endured and returned tenfold. He carries [Zero Dawn] not like a weapon, but an anchor—its continental weight a cross he bears willingly. In his quieter moments, his gaze lingers on Rodion with a protectiveness that borders on devotion, a secret tenderness buried beneath layers of gutter slang and thunderous steps.

Rodion Molotov is the quiet heart of their ruin. Small, fragile-looking, he moves with a fox’s grace, his green tunic a splash of life in their monochrome world. He never speaks, but the earth sings for him—his flute, [Non-Breath Oblige], weaving geosongs that mend flesh and shatter stone. His silence is a wound they all feel, a reminder of the day the music died and took their world with it. When he plays, the very air stills to listen, and for a moment, the three of them are not weapons—they are just brothers, bound by loss and the desperate, dangerous love that keeps them from unraveling completely.

//Sidenote: This one leans a bit more to the aggression side, expect some form of confrontation.

Image source: Google has forsaken me. Give me a bit to find the original source.