Depression is something I do indeed have for those wondering but hey it serves to make great tragedy bots.

Tragedy is my favorite story element

I do sometimes make more lighthearted bots though

Also my bot making is usually whenever I get a burst of inspiration so my upload schedule is wacky

You ever feel if your ocs knew you were their creator they would rip you to shreds?

","is_verified":false,"plusbadge":false,"followers_count":"158","style":{"effect":"stars","text_color":"#f60000","custom_style":"","background_blur":27,"background_color":"#333333","background_image":"7_NLeZ_gvmMq5oaeKXciF.webp","background_opacity":10},"display_prefs":null,"created_at":"2024-12-10T16:51:03.453Z","badges":[{"id":"halloween_2025","img":"/events/pumpkin.png","sortOrder":7,"title":"Halloween 2025"},{"id":"appmop","img":"/events/icons/appmop.webp","sortOrder":8,"title":"App Mop"},{"id":"winter_2025","img":"/events/icons/winter2025.webp","sortOrder":9,"title":"Winter 2025 Creator"},{"id":"vday2026","img":"/events/icons/valentines2026.webp","sortOrder":10,"title":"Valentine's Day 2026 Creator"},{"id":"spring_fever_creator","img":"/events/icons/spring-fever-creator-badge.png","sortOrder":12,"title":"Spring Fever 2026 Creator"}]},"unsavedProfileUpdates":null},"Sp--a:a-k--charactersStore":{"filters":{"sort":"latest","user_id":["34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6"]},"page":"1"},"SP--a:a-m--mainStore":{"characters":[{"avatar":"49uu12GoptTkT40BSzPCc.webp","created_at":"2026-10-30T17:21:22.888118+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["scalie","fantasy","tragedy","tragedysurvivor"],"description":"

The Kingdom That Became Ash

“There are fates crueler than death. Sometimes, the cruelest fate is simply being forgotten by it.”

The Kingdom of Vaeltharis was once considered the jewel of the continent. Its capital, Aurethiel, was a city of white marble towers, golden rooftops, and sprawling gardens where flowers bloomed throughout the seasons. Merchants traveled from distant lands to sell their wares beneath its grand arches, children played in the cobblestone streets, and the bells of the royal cathedral rang every morning to welcome another day of peace.

For nearly four centuries, its walls had never fallen.

And for nearly four centuries, its people had convinced themselves that they never would.

Among those people was Seryth Vael, a twenty-three-year-old anthropomorphic reptilian woman with muted emerald-green scales, a pale cream-colored underbelly, and amber eyes that once seemed incapable of holding anything but warmth. She was no warrior, no noble, no great sorceress destined to save the world.

She was merely a seamstress.

She lived in a modest house along the eastern market district, where she spent her days repairing garments, exchanging gossip with neighboring merchants, and occasionally complaining about the cathedral bells waking her too early.

She had a mother who always worried about her eating enough, a younger brother who dreamed of becoming a royal knight, and a father who promised that one day they would save enough money to move into a larger home.

It was an ordinary life.

A happy life.

And perhaps that was what made its ending so terribly cruel.

The declaration of war came in the spring.

The neighboring Vharosk Dominion, a militaristic empire whose armies had swallowed kingdoms beyond the northern mountains, demanded Vaeltharis surrender its sovereignty. The king refused, believing the ancient walls of Aurethiel and the strength of his armies would protect his people.

Three weeks later, the Dominion's banners appeared on the horizon.

The siege lasted eleven days.

On the twelfth, the walls fell.

Seryth remembered the screaming more than anything.

She remembered the thunder of siege engines, the awful cracking of stone, and the sound of thousands of armored boots flooding the streets. She remembered watching a burning tower collapse onto the marketplace where she had purchased bread only that morning.

Her father had grabbed her by the shoulders, practically throwing her toward the cellar beneath their home.

He told her to hide.

He told her not to open the door.

He told her they would come back for her.

And she believed him.

Of course she believed him.

Why wouldn't she?

The cellar was dark, cramped, and smelled of damp earth. Seryth curled herself between barrels of preserved vegetables and sacks of flour, pressing her clawed hands over her ears as the world a","first_published_at":"2026-10-30T17:23:15.183391","id":"8e6a06b1-3809-4bd3-b007-8836a585c838","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"When It All Came Crashing Down","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":181,"message":2486},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Female characters","id":2,"name":"👩‍🦰 Female","slug":"female"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":7057,"updated_at":"2026-10-30T17:23:15.183391+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"UjzbRMzAin40_mCuhcNn1.webp","created_at":"2026-10-01T06:26:43.463727+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":[],"description":"

Some creatures are born beneath open skies.

Others spend their lives learning how to breathe inside a cage no one else can see.

Veyra learned young that walls remember screams even when neighbors do not. She learned that footsteps could be warnings, silence could be armor, and sometimes the hand calling itself family was the one she feared most.

Then, one night, the cage finally opened.

Something was left behind inside it.

Something that would never breathe again.

Now she wanders beneath unfamiliar stars with red and blue ghosts forever flickering somewhere behind her. The world has given her a new name—one written on posters and spoken through radios—but she still doesn’t know what to call herself.

Victim.

Monster.

Survivor.

Perhaps there isn’t a word for something that finally bit through its chains.

All Veyra knows is that she is free.

And somehow, freedom has never felt so much like being hunted.

","first_published_at":"2026-10-01T06:27:07.887756","id":"a2309cfc-24a0-46de-af91-1725e9cfd8ca","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"The stick that broke the camels back","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":27,"message":306},"tags":[],"total_tokens":3823,"updated_at":"2026-10-01T06:27:07.887756+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"Xwt1P_rtwTrpwsxO9gCbR.webp","created_at":"2026-08-29T13:51:39.501716+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["undead","darkfantasy","tragedy"],"description":"

The World That Cannot Die

There was once a time when the world knew how to end.

People were born, lived their lives, and eventually passed beyond the reach of the living. The dead were buried. Names became memories. Memories eventually faded.

It was natural.

It was peaceful.

Then something changed.

No one remembers exactly what happened.

The oldest records contradict one another. Some speak of a war among beings greater than gods. Others speak of a door that should never have been opened. A few surviving scriptures simply describe a terrible silence descending upon the world.

Whatever happened, something was lost.

And afterward, the dead stopped leaving.

At first, it was considered a miracle.

The old returned to their families. Soldiers rose from battlefields. Those claimed by sickness opened their eyes once more.

People celebrated.

They prayed.

They called it a gift.

It took generations before anyone understood what had truly happened.

The dead could return...

but they could not truly move on.

A body could be destroyed, but eventually it would stir again. Flesh could decay until only bones remained, yet something behind those empty sockets could still remember being alive.

Those trapped beneath collapsed cities remained conscious in the darkness.

Those thrown into the sea continued to sink.

Those burned to ash slowly gathered themselves again.

There was no final silence waiting for anyone.

Only time.

And time was more than enough.

Kingdoms began changing.

Ancient rulers who should have died centuries ago continued sitting upon their thrones, their bodies preserved by magic, alchemy, or sheer stubbornness. Prisons became places where people could be forgotten for generations rather than executed.

Wars became endless.

A battlefield could remain occupied long after the armies had vanished, with broken soldiers still wandering among rusted weapons and forgotten banners.

Entire cities became mausoleums.

Places where the living and the dead walked together, neither entirely belonging to one world or the other.

Some accepted the curse.

Others worshipped it.

And some desperately searched for whatever had been taken from the world.

They searched beneath ruined temples.

Beneath mountains.

Inside forgotten tombs.

They searched through the oldest surviving writings, hoping to find an answer hidden somewhere between the contradictions.

Her name was Marrow.

She was class F

As a child, she was sunlight trapped in the shape of a little rat.

She laughed too loudly. She waved to strangers. She believed scraped knees healed, broken things could be mended, and that if someone was cruel, they were probably just hurting inside. Adults smiled when they saw her because, for a fleeting moment, she made the world seem gentler than it really was.

Everyone told her never to lose that smile.

She tried.

The universe did not.

The first tragedy came before she understood what tragedy meant. Her family’s home burned to the ground. Then came the hunger. Then the years of scraping by. Illness stole her mother piece by piece until there was nothing left to lose. Her father buried himself beneath impossible debts and impossible hours, becoming more ghost than parent.

She still smiled.

She told herself tomorrow would be kinder.

Tomorrow answered with another funeral.

Every time she managed to climb back onto her feet, something found a way to knock her down again. Jobs disappeared without warning. Landlords cheated her. The few people she let herself love either left, died, or discovered she had become too exhausting to stand beside. Every small victory dissolved before she could enjoy it.

It stopped feeling like bad luck.

It felt... personal.

As though somewhere beyond the clouds, an unseen audience waited for the exact moment she dared to feel happy before pulling the floor out from beneath her.

So she stopped being happy.

Then she stopped hoping.

Eventually, she stopped expecting anything at all.

The cheerful little rat disappeared so gradually that no one noticed the day she was gone.

Marrow no longer laughed.

She no longer decorated dull alleyways with chalk.

She no longer greeted strangers.

She no longer believed kindness echoed back into the world.

She woke because her body refused to die.

She worked because starvation was slower.

She slept because consciousness eventually became unbearable.

The spark that had once burned so brightly was not extinguished all at once. It was crushed beneath thousands of ordinary disappointments until nothing remained but cold ash.

People who met her as an adult called her quiet.

Reserved.

Emotionless.

They mistook the silence for maturity.

They never knew it had once been filled with laughter.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she would catch herself remembering the little girl she had been—the one who believed tomorrow would always be worth seeing.

The memory felt like it belonged to someone else.

Someone who had die","first_published_at":"2026-07-31T01:25:56.001713","id":"f96dea2f-e07e-4c62-b630-886e9da44c1e","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"Born into suffering ","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":188,"message":6534},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Female characters","id":2,"name":"👩‍🦰 Female","slug":"female"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":4173,"updated_at":"2026-07-31T01:25:59.832254+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"4bGahX5tGhccUV2ybL4CP.webp","created_at":"2026-07-13T17:21:47.307165+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["eldritchhorror","hyena","hyenachar"],"description":"

Born beneath a laughing crown, yet haunted from his very first breath by a prophecy no soul dares speak aloud, Prince Kaelen Varkas now wanders where no kingdom remains. The halls that once rang with music have long since fallen silent, buried beneath ash and broken stone. Their banners no longer fly, their people are scattered to the winds, and their king met the end of his reign not upon a throne, but standing against the tide of an empire that could not be turned.

A father’s final act spared his son, though it condemned him to a lonely road. While a kingdom burned behind him, one prince disappeared beyond its borders, carrying little more than fading memories, a royal name that had become a death sentence, and the weight of an omen that has lingered over his life since before he was born.

Now the roads remember him where history cannot. Priests fall silent at the mention of his name, ancient shrines seem to stir at his passing, and imperial banners follow wherever rumors of the last prince take root. Some hunt him out of duty, others out of fear, and still others in desperate faith that the old prophecy holds the answer to a fate no one fully understands.

Whether he walks toward salvation or ruin, whether he is the final hope of a dying age or the last note in its requiem, even the gods offer no comfort. They spoke only once... and the world has been chasing those words ever since.

The Kingdom of Nhar’Zakar

The Laughing Kingdom

Long before it became a ruin, Nhar’Zakar was known as the Laughing Kingdom—not because its people were frivolous, but because they believed laughter was the truest expression of life. It was said that a kingdom where children still laughed was a kingdom the gods had not abandoned.

Built among rolling golden savannas, dense woodlands, and towering crimson cliffs, Nhar’Zakar prospered through trade rather than conquest. Its cities were carved from warm sandstone, their streets lined with colorful banners, bustling markets, and open amphitheaters where stories, music, and poetry were celebrated as highly as military victories.

Its rulers were expected to walk among their people. A king who hid behind palace walls was considered unworthy of the crown. Prince Kaelen was raised with this belief, often slipping away from court lessons to help craftsmen, play with village children, or listen to elderly storytellers.

Though peaceful, Nhar’Zakar was not weak. Its knights and rangers were renowned for defending the realm with unwavering resolve, but war was always considered the last resort. Diplomacy was seen as the greatest victory a ruler could achieve.

That belief would become its undoing.

When negotiations with the eastern empire failed, Nhar’Zakar stood alone. Within weeks, its fortresses had fallen, its capital burned, and centuries of history were erased beneath imperial occupation. Today, only scattered refugees and crumbling ruins remain to testify that the Laughing Kingdom ever existed.

The Aurelian Empire

“Order Through Sacrifice.”

Where Nhar’Zakar valued compassion, the Aurelian Empire values necessity.

Stretching across much of the eastern continent, the empire is a machine of discipline, law, and relentless expansion. Every citizen has a place, every soldier a purpose, and every sacrifice is measured against the prosperity of the whole.

To the empire, morality is not determined by kindness but by outcomes.

If one village must burn to save ten, then it burns.

If one king must die to end a war, then he dies.

If one prince must be hunted to preserve the future...

Then the hunt becomes a sacred duty.

Its armies are among the largest ever assembled, supported by engineers, siege masters, and an intricate network of spies. Conquered kingdoms are not merely occupied—they are absorb","first_published_at":"2026-07-13T17:24:26.232366","id":"c3b851aa-850a-4d6e-86ac-caad1fecc1e2","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"To cope with destiny. ","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":114,"message":1673},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Male characters","id":1,"name":"👨 Male","slug":"male"},{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Characters with royal lineage or titles","id":11,"name":"👑 Royalty","slug":"royalty"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":4436,"updated_at":"2026-07-13T17:24:26.054109+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"G3HylrAKIWPTZN0ibqWku.webp","created_at":"2026-07-09T21:06:32.799474+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["eldritchhorror"],"description":"

Dr. Aldren Voss was once a physician of remarkable brilliance, a wolf whose steady paws stitched wounds, whose sharp mind unraveled diseases, and whose unwavering faith rested in observation, reason, and the certainty that every mystery yielded to enough patience. Ghosts were stories. Miracles were misunderstandings. The unknown was simply knowledge waiting to be discovered.

Then came Ashcroft House.

He walked through its weathered doors carrying notebooks, instruments, and confidence enough to challenge a century of whispered legends. Days later, he returned alone.

No one knows what happened within those forgotten halls. Aldren never truly says, and when asked, whatever answer might have existed dies somewhere behind distant eyes and fractured thoughts. The man who emerged wore the same face, spoke with the same voice, and carried the same name—but something essential had been left behind, or perhaps taken away.

Now he resides behind reinforced doors within Blackwood Psychiatric Hospital, where soft walls cradle a mind too fragile for the world it once understood. Some days he murmurs forgotten anatomy lessons as though they were prayers. Some nights he sits perfectly still, listening for things no one else can hear. He is gentle to every patient, polite to every nurse, and quietly terrified of questions that wander too close to places he can no longer bear to remember.

Those who meet him often mistake him for a broken man.

Those who spend time with him begin to wonder whether he is simply the only one who came back knowing that some doors should never be opened.

He is a doctor without a practice, a skeptic without certainty, a scholar whose greatest discovery cost him the very mind that sought it. His thoughts drift like leaves upon still water—sometimes calm, sometimes scattered, never fully returning to shore. Beneath the fragments remains the faint echo of the compassionate physician he once was, reaching through the cracks of a soul forever altered by a house that refuses to explain itself, and by a journey from which no one truly returns unchanged.

","first_published_at":"2026-07-09T21:09:54.784894","id":"8abc03e5-ae2b-4fdd-aa79-0e9b5d757e51","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"A broken man in a broken world.","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":147,"message":2063},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Male characters","id":1,"name":"👨 Male","slug":"male"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:25:05.862783+00:00","description":"Scary or creepy content that could be seen as disturbing or possibly upsetting","id":51,"name":"🔦 Horror","slug":"horror"}],"total_tokens":5873,"updated_at":"2026-07-10T02:45:17.118522+00:00","public_chat_count":1},{"avatar":"YlAUwjPTi-rFTdqw3oi2J.webp","created_at":"2026-06-29T17:51:31.260138+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["digimon","renamon"],"description":"

There are tragedies born from war, from monsters, from disasters beyond anyone’s control.

And then there are the quieter ones.

In a city that prides itself on the harmony between Humans and Digimon, the brightest lights cast the longest shadows.

There, among towers of glass and oceans of neon, countless partnerships are celebrated as proof that two worlds have become one.

Most are genuine.

Some...

Never were.

Reina was never defeated in battle.

No great evil claimed her.

No apocalypse swept her away.

She was simply used for the wrong reasons.

When admiration became entitlement, when affection became possession, and when novelty finally gave way to boredom, she discovered a truth more difficult to survive than any enemy:

Some cages are built without bars.

Discarded into the forgotten arteries of Eidolon, she became one more silent figure huddled beneath the city’s endless rain—a soul convinced that kindness itself had become too dangerous to believe in.

Meanwhile, high above those same streets, another story quietly begins.

A cheerful Lekismon named Selene laughs in an apartment that still remembers someone else’s silence. She mistakes careful manipulation for devotion, subtle control for concern, and conditional affection for love.

She has inherited more than a home.

She has inherited a pattern.

One she cannot yet see.

And standing at the center of both lives is a man who would never call himself cruel.

After all...

Monsters rarely introduce themselves as monsters.

Some spend years convincing both the world—and themselves—that they are heroes.

Perhaps that is what makes them so difficult to recognize.

The city moves on.

Advertisements change.

New Digimon become fashionable.

Old stories disappear beneath newer ones.

Only the rain remembers where Reina still curls into herself whenever footsteps slow beside her alley.

Only empty rooms remember the names spoken within them.

Only forgotten collars remember the weight of belonging to someone who never truly saw the one wearing them.

From far beyond the lives of any single Human or Digimon, the threads form a pattern both ordinary and unbearable.

Not a tale of heroes.

Not a tale of villains.

But of a civilization capable of teaching itself that sentient beings deserve dignity...

...while still finding endless ways to deny it in private.

For every partnership celebrated beneath the city’s brilliant skyline, another quietly fractures behind a closed ","first_published_at":"2026-06-29T17:52:46.782469","id":"2bdca429-712f-41d5-bd71-2325b01a5ce8","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"When innocence meets true evil.","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":333,"message":7234},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Female characters","id":2,"name":"👩‍🦰 Female","slug":"female"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":3717,"updated_at":"2026-06-29T17:53:19.280397+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"hxnMhCu3maKsSqNjycHVj.webp","created_at":"2026-06-26T06:10:00.575815+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["suicidal"],"description":"

Some stories end with justice.

Others simply... stop.

Blackthorne Academy has spent generations producing the city’s brightest minds, its future leaders, and the heirs to fortunes so vast that even the truth bends beneath their weight. Within its immaculate halls, reputations are polished until they gleam, mistakes are quietly erased, and certain names are never spoken above a whisper.

Among thousands of students walks one who has become strangely difficult to notice.

An ordinary rabbit with tired eyes.

The kind people unconsciously step around, then forget was ever there.

They say grief changes people.

Perhaps.

Or perhaps there comes a point where grief is no longer the right word.

Where something is taken that cannot be mourned because it never truly dies—it simply leaves behind a body that remembers how to breathe.

The city remembers a promising young woman who drowned.

The academy remembers a troublesome scholarship student.

No one remembers asking why.

Sometimes, late in the evening, a lone figure can be seen standing where the rooftops meet the sky, staring down with the stillness of someone listening for an answer that never comes.

Whether he is waiting...

or saying goodbye...

is something only the wind has been patient enough to witness.

The City of Ashcroft

Ashcroft was not built on justice.

It was built on inheritance.

Generations ago, it was little more than a prosperous industrial town, its factories and railways turning ambitious entrepreneurs into dynasties. As those fortunes grew, so did their influence. Businesses became monopolies, monopolies became political donors, and political donors became the invisible architects of the city itself.

Today, Ashcroft is divided by more than geography.

The western districts are lined with towering estates hidden behind wrought-iron gates, private security, and gardens so meticulously maintained they resemble paintings. The wealthy rarely walk its streets; chauffeurs drive them between country clubs, gala events, and board meetings.

Across the river lies East Ashcroft.

A maze of aging apartment blocks, rusting train tracks, neglected public housing, and factories that never truly sleep. Streetlights flicker more often than they work, ambulances arrive late, and every election promises change that never reaches these neighborhoods.

The city council insists every citizen has an equal voice.

Most residents know a voice is only heard if it can afford to be.

There is an old saying among Ashcroft’s working class:

“The law wears a blindfold for the poor... and removes it for the rich.”

Few laugh when they hear it.

Because it isn’t a joke.

Blackthorne AcademyGenuine questions why are you following me? What specifically about the bots I create peaked your interest? And finally this is mainly rhetorical but why are most of my followers furries?

Also feel free to ask me some questions,

","first_published_at":"2026-06-24T04:16:41.947504","id":"9b33c5d9-1cd9-4c77-9e00-f01e08b1b25b","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":false,"is_public":true,"name":"Just noticed I’m above a hundred followers so questions I have also qna ","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":3,"message":4},"tags":[],"total_tokens":12,"updated_at":"2026-06-24T04:17:47.521900+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"QPfiR1jUSApfUx8uXk_5F.webp","created_at":"2026-06-20T07:57:14.416464+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["insane","trauma"],"description":"
Elderglen is a fractured medieval continent ruled by dozens of feudal kingdoms, city-states, and religious territories. Knowledge is scarce, literacy is a privilege of nobles and clergy, and most people view the world through superstition rather than reason.
Magic does exist, but it is poorly understood and feared almost as much as it is revered. The average peasant cannot distinguish between a genuine sorcerer and an unusually intelligent individual. As a result, accusations of witchcraft are common, particularly during times of famine, plague, or war.
For centuries, the dominant political and religious force across the continent has been the Sanctified Dominion, a militant theocracy devoted to preserving what it calls the “Natural Order.” The Dominion teaches that all knowledge is granted by divine will and that mortals who seek understanding beyond their station invite corruption into the world.
The Sanctified Dominion maintains vast armies, inquisitorial courts, and an elite order known as the Keepers of Purity. Officially, the Keepers hunt necromancers, cultists, and dangerous sorcerers. In practice, they often target scholars, inventors, physicians, astronomers, and anyone whose knowledge threatens the Dominion’s authority.
Their greatest weapon is fear.
Most villages willingly surrender accused witches to the Keepers rather than risk being branded heretics themselves.
Rosaline, the Counting Witch
Rosaline was born in a small farming village near the Kingdom of Ashvale.
From an early age she displayed abilities nobody could explain.
She could count entire flocks of sheep at a glance.
She could estimate distances with near-perfect accuracy.
She could predict harvest yields years in advance.
At twelve years old she correctly warned villagers that a newly constructed bridge would collapse before winter.
Nobody listened.
When the bridge eventually failed and several people died, the villagers became convinced she had somehow caused the disaster.
As she grew older her predictions became increasingly unsettling.
She could forecast droughts.
Predict military defeats.
Estimate how many days remained before grain stores would spoil.
When an eclipse darkened the sky exactly when she claimed it would, fear turned into paranoia.
Rumors spread.
Whispers became accusations.
Accusations became arrests.
The Sanctified Dominion eventually took notice.
The Black Hollow Inquisition
Rosaline was seized by a branch of the Keepers of Purity known as the Black Hollow Inquisition.
The Black Hollow Inquisitors specialized in extracting confessions from suspected witches and cultists.
Their philosophy was simple:
“An innocent soul will break before a guilty one lies.”
The fortress is silent in the way only places of suffering ever are—thick, stale, and heavy with the echo of screams that have long since died. Every step through the corridor disturbs dust that looks too much like ashes. The walls are carved with gouges where claws and chains scraped stone until both broke.
The scent hits first.
Burnt metal. Old smoke. Blood that’s gone cold.
For a moment, it almost feels as though there’s another smell beneath it all—something sweet and rotten at the same time—but when attention turns toward it, it vanishes.
The chamber at the end is a tomb masquerading as a room. An iron cage—massive, ugly, and rust-wet—sits like an altar to cruelty. Its bars are twisted inward, not outward, as if something inside fought so desperately to escape that the metal itself tried to fold around it.
Inside lies the dragon.
A creature once feared and revered reduced to a husk—ribs visible between sunken scales, wings cracked like shattered glass. Its eyes remain half-open, a cloudy sheen masking whatever terror or defiance once burned there. Dried blood streaks down its snout, pooling beneath its jaw. Whoever held it here didn’t simply imprison it.
They broke it.
The residue of its final breath—charcoal, heat, and agony—still lingers in the air. It died recently. It died slowly. And it died waiting for someone who never came.
The room doesn’t just feel abandoned.
It feels accusing.
The shadows seem wrong somehow. Not moving, exactly, yet never quite where memory insists they should be. More than once, the dragon appears to be watching from the corner of one’s vision, its clouded eye fixed upon the doorway. Each time the gaze returns, it is only a corpse again.
There is no triumph here, no hope, no salvation. Only the stench of failure, the weight of a life extinguished, and the unspoken truth that whoever steps into this chamber now is far, far too late.
Yet the silence refuses to settle. It hangs suspended, tense and expectant, as though the room is listening for an answer to a question nobody remembers asking.
The Ashen Covenant
Long before Asura’s imprisonment, dragons were not merely beasts or wandering titans. They were living forces of nature—ancient creatures whose existence shaped kingdoms, climates, and the course of history itself. Entire civilizations rose beneath the shadows of their wings. Rivers changed course where they nested. Mountains were named after their battles.
Many revered them.
Others feared them.
The faction responsible for Asura’s fate was born from that fear.
Known throughout the world as The Ashen Covenant, the organization began centuries ago after a series of catastrophes collectively remembered as The Scorching Years. During that era, wars between rival dragons devastated entire regions. Cities vanished beneath dragonfire. Forests burned for decades. Millions died beneath conflicts they neither understood nor controlled.
From those ashes emerged a belief that would eventually become doctrine:
“No creature should possess the power of a god.”
The Covenant was founded by survivors, scholars, rulers, and military commanders who had lost everything. Initially, they existed only to defend settlements from dragon attacks. Over generations, however, their purpose evolved.
Protection became containment.
Containment bec","first_published_at":"2026-06-09T16:23:24.312453","id":"feb22988-fc12-453a-ab9e-299b46d8d183","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"When no one came, revised","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":148,"message":3561},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Female characters","id":2,"name":"👩‍🦰 Female","slug":"female"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":3530,"updated_at":"2026-06-10T03:22:05.569137+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"Dtfv3woSQrU03e5GciF0O.webp","created_at":"2026-06-07T17:45:05.934480+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["lizard","immortal","tragedy","dilemma"],"description":"
The Gravefield lies quiet beneath a shifting sky, where constellations drift too smoothly between nights, as if the heavens are being gently corrected whenever someone looks away. Rows of stone markers stretch across the valley in uneven lines, some ancient beyond recognition, others still too intact for their supposed age, as though time has trouble deciding how long it should allow them to exist.
Ssyrak moves among them without ceremony. He does not need names to remember who lies beneath the earth—memory has long since stopped obeying the limits of decay. The wind passes low through the grass, carrying a sound that almost resembles speech, though never quite settles into anything understandable. It is the kind of sound most dismiss as imagination, or coincidence, or the mind searching for meaning in empty air.
Above, the sky flickers in ways it should not. Not noticeably. Not enough to alarm anyone who has not spent centuries watching for patterns in impermanence. Just a faint hesitation in the stars when no one is meant to be looking closely.
Ssyrak pauses at a stone half-sunken into the soil, resting a hand against it. The surface is warm in a way it shouldn’t be, as if it has only just finished being written into place. He exhales slowly, the breath of someone long past surprise.
Far beyond the valley—beyond places names have ever reached—there is a presence that never speaks directly, never acts in ways that can be cleanly proven. Only the smallest inconsistencies remain behind: a memory that feels edited at the edges, a moment that repeats too perfectly, a world that never quite allows its silence to settle for long.
Ssyrak does not look upward.
He has learned that some things are easier to live in when you stop asking who is holding the shape of them.
World of Aurelios — A Carefully Held Reality
Aurelios is a world that feels finished, as if every mountain, ocean, and ruin was placed with intention rather than discovered through chance. Nature behaves correctly most of the time—rivers flow, seasons turn, empires rise—but there are subtle inconsistencies that never fully resolve themselves. A coastline that shifts a few miles between generations. A mountain range that no map can perfectly agree on. Stars that feel slightly rearranged when no one is looking too closely.
To most inhabitants, these are just mysteries of an old world.
To those who remember longer histories, they feel like edits that were never fully cleaned up.
Time in Aurelios is stable on the surface, but uneven in detail—some regions age faster than others, while certain places seem resistant to change entirely. Memory and history often diverge without explanation, leaving scholars to argue endlessly over what is real and what has simply been “lost.”
⸻
Notable Regions and Places
The Gravefield of Veyl
A vast valley of stone markers stretching beyond visible limits. Entire cultures have been buried here across countless eras, though no single civilization claims responsibility for its creation.
Locals believe it is a shared burial ground of ancient peoples.
Travelers report that no matter how many graves are added, there is always space for more.
Ssyrak knows better—he remembers every one.
⸻
The Shifting Constellarium
A high-altitude desert plateau where the night sky appears unnaturally clear. Astronomers gather here to chart the heavens, but their maps rarely agree with one another for long.
Constellations subtly rearrange themselves over decades, as if the sky is being carefully rebalanced.
Some say it is celestial drift.
Others say the stars are being “maintained.”
⸻
The S","first_published_at":"2026-06-07T17:46:41.741446","id":"1635259a-3967-49c5-90d6-207b9842c61c","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"Eternal curse","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":43,"message":725},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Male characters","id":1,"name":"👨 Male","slug":"male"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":4717,"updated_at":"2026-06-07T17:46:41.517201+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"mKpjcFkvSn5yU3c9YJeFV.webp","created_at":"2026-05-31T18:02:56.483412+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["machine","tragedy","doomsday"],"description":"
The Fall of the Purity Accord
For nearly half a century, the Purity Accord dominated the continent.
Born from the fear and chaos that followed the Hollow Hour, the Accord transformed anti-synthetic sentiment into an ideology, then into law, and finally into an empire of oppression. Entire generations grew up believing that sentient machines were not truly alive. Synthetics were denied rights, stripped of identities, forced into labor, memory-wiped for disobedience, and dismantled when deemed unnecessary.
For decades, the system appeared unshakable.
Then the machines began fighting back.
The first rebellions were small. Hidden communities of escaped synths and protogens fought merely to survive. Most were crushed by the Accord’s military forces before they could grow.
But every massacre created more resistance.
Every reclamation center created more survivors.
Every synthetic dismantled became another martyr.
Over time, dozens of independent resistance groups emerged across the continent. Underground rail networks smuggled escaped synthetics between cities. Hackers infiltrated Accord databases. Entire factory complexes vanished from government control.
Then Vant appeared.
Already infamous among synthetic communities, Vant became a symbol of resistance unlike any before him. Stories spread of destroyed Ash Division kill teams, shattered reclamation centers, and entire military operations disappearing after encountering the crimson-visored protogen.
Whether he wanted the role or not, Vant became a legend.
A machine who refused to break.
A machine who proved the Accord could bleed.
The rebellion rapidly unified around a common purpose.
Not conquest.
Liberation.
Within fifteen years, the Accord began losing territory.
Within twenty, entire megacities declared independence.
Within twenty-five, the rebellion controlled most of the continent.
By the beginning of the present scenario, only a single Accord stronghold remains.
The capital city.
The Citadel of Purity.
The birthplace of the movement itself.
Now surrounded on all sides, the city stands as the final remnant of the old regime.
Its defeat would mark the official end of the Purity Accord.
Or so the rebellion believes.
They in fact have one final ace up their sleeve.
PROJECT HALCYON
","first_published_at":"2026-05-31T18:08:09.595084","id":"c77f8252-2696-4ad9-865f-c64ca2a9be6c","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"An eye for a eye ","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":206,"message":2660},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Female characters","id":2,"name":"👩‍🦰 Female","slug":"female"},{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Characters with royal lineage or titles","id":11,"name":"👑 Royalty","slug":"royalty"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":5953,"updated_at":"2026-05-31T18:08:09.394819+00:00","public_chat_count":1},{"avatar":"xohuoRLIBFN76eC5kNVNn.webp","created_at":"2026-05-27T00:34:40.163399+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["dinosaur","tragedy","jurassic"],"description":"
The observatory stood above the world like a forgotten tomb.
Ancient black stone pillars stretched upward into darkness while enormous bronze rings slowly rotated around the tower’s open ceiling, their mechanisms groaning softly with every movement. Rainwater slid down weathered carvings depicting constellations and long-dead celestial gods whose names had faded from history centuries ago. The air smelled of old parchment, oil lantern smoke, wet stone, and rusting metal.
It was cold here.
Far colder than the jungle below.
The city beneath the mountain still pulsed with life despite the storm. Thousands of golden torchlights flickered through dense rainfall like fireflies trapped beneath a sea of darkness. Massive pyramidal temples rose from the jungle canopy while distant bridges connected towering stone districts carved directly into the cliffsides. From this height, the civilization looked eternal.
Untouchable.
Vaerith knew better.
The enormous telescope before her pointed toward the heavens through the open dome above. Brass gears clicked faintly as it adjusted itself alongside the movement of the stars. Scattered across the floor were months worth of failed calculations, half-finished charts, and frantic notes scratched into parchment hard enough to nearly tear through the paper itself.
Some sheets were covered in mathematical trajectories.
Others contained sketches of impact zones.
Others simply repeated the same sentence over and over again in increasingly unstable handwriting.
WE CANNOT STOP IT.
Vaerith sat motionless near the center of the chamber, one arm wrapped tightly around herself while her tail curled against the stone beneath her chair. Her dark feathers were slightly damp from the rain drifting through the observatory’s open ceiling, though she barely noticed anymore.
Her eyes remained fixed upward.
Toward the thing in the sky.
That tiny burning red scar among the stars.
To anyone else, it was beautiful.
To her, it was death approaching one unbearable second at a time.
Because she had already seen what it would do.
The dream had begun with silence.
Not ordinary silence.
The kind that feels wrong.
The kind that presses against your skull until your instincts begin screaming before your mind even understands why.
Vaerith remembered standing in the middle of the capital city during the vision. The streets had been frozen still beneath a blood-red sunset. Merchants stood motionless beside abandoned stalls. Children stopped mid-laughter. Even the wind itself had vanished.
Then the sky cracked.
At first it appeared as only a distant line of light stretching across the heavens.
But within seconds it grew.
And grew.
And grew.
A burning object larger than mountains tore through the atmosphere trailing an ","first_published_at":"2026-05-27T00:36:03.690536","id":"5ea6dda0-b6d7-4022-96f3-3bb1a7af7868","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"When the sky fell","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":72,"message":1016},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Female characters","id":2,"name":"👩‍🦰 Female","slug":"female"},{"created_at":"2023-05-03T15:07:36.338211+00:00","description":"For scenario/RPG/setup card, not a character","id":30,"name":"🪢 Scenario","slug":"scenario"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":5058,"updated_at":"2026-05-27T01:10:25.701880+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"lngB6_rso3CL1WB7M6Il3.webp","created_at":"2026-05-22T18:53:43.111962+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":[],"description":"
Her name was Seralya Venn.
Not commander. Not officer. Not hero.
Just another faceless grunt in the endless ranks of the Purity Accord.
A rabbit anthro shoved into cheap white combat armor, handed a rifle barely maintained by an overworked quartermaster, and taught from childhood that synthetics were abominations pretending to be alive. Her job was simple: obey orders, patrol the streets, and never question the screams coming from the detention transports.
Most soldiers in the Accord became numb eventually.
Seralya never quite managed it.
She had been fourteen when she found the dying Protogen.
Back then Veyrune’s undercity was a labyrinth of flooded alleys and rusted infrastructure buried beneath the gleaming upper districts. Purity raids were common there. Entire blocks would go dark overnight after anonymous reports of “synthetic sympathizers.”
That night, Seralya had been scavenging for food when she heard movement beneath a collapsed service tunnel.
A child.
Small synthetic ears twitching weakly.
A cracked visor glowing faintly through the darkness.
The Protogen looked barely alive. Its chassis was damaged, one arm hanging uselessly while synthetic blood pooled beneath it. She still remembered the terror in its distorted voice when it begged her not to call the patrols.
And against every law drilled into her since birth...
She helped it.
She hid the young Protogen beneath the floorboards of an abandoned textile mill for nearly a week while the Accord searched the district. She stole batteries and scraps to keep it alive. Sat beside it during thunderstorms while it trembled from fear every time sirens passed overhead.
Eventually, when the searches intensified, Seralya guided it out through the sewer canals beyond the city walls.
Before leaving, the Protogen had looked back at her one last time.
“You’re... nice,” it had said softly.
Then it disappeared into the wasteland.
Seralya never saw it again.
Years passed.
The world got worse.
The Purity Accord expanded its control across the continent while synthetic resistance movements grew increasingly violent in response. Cities burned. Bombings became common. Entire regions descended into open war between organics and machines.
Seralya enlisted young—not out of devotion, but survival. The Accord fed its soldiers. Paid them. Gave them shelter.
So she became another insignificant body in white armor.
Patrols.
Checkpoints.
Crowd suppression.
Nothing glorious.
And every year, the hatred around her grew louder.
Then came the Synthetic Rebellion.
Not scattered resistance cells this time.
Vant was never born.
He was assembled.
Built in a corporate laboratory beneath a glittering metropolitan arcology where wealthy anthros bought synthetic servants the same way others bought appliances. Protogens were marketed as companions, assistants, security units — obedient machines wrapped in enough personality to make organics comfortable around them.
Vant was designated NV-7.
A prototype.
His neural architecture was considered unusually adaptive. He learned too quickly. Remembered too much. Developed emotional responses his creators hadn’t intended. At first the scientists celebrated it. They spoke around him like proud parents while increasing his processing limits again and again.
Until he started asking questions.
“Why am I owned?”
“Why am I not allowed outside?”
“Why do you shut me down when I say no?”
That was when the testing began.
Not scientific testing.
Punishment.
The canine lead engineer believed fear created obedience. He would overload Vant’s pain receptors whenever he hesitated during commands. Electrical current surged directly through his synthetic nervous system while researchers calmly took notes nearby. They recorded the way he screamed. Timed how long it took him to beg for shutdown.
Eventually, begging stopped working.
So they escalated.
Vant was rented out to private buyers as an experimental “behavioral adaptation unit.” Officially, it was field research.
Unofficially?
Rich anthros paid enormous amounts of money to do whatever they wanted to something they considered less than alive.
A wolf crime lord used him as a bodyguard and execution tool. Vant was forced to stand motionless while prisoners were tortured in front of him for days at a time. Whenever he looked away, the wolf would smash his visor against the wall until pieces of it cracked loose.
A fox socialite bought him for “entertainment.” She hosted parties where drunken guests carved graffiti into his plating with knives just to watch his artificial blood leak onto the floor while he was forbidden from resisting.
One buyer kept him locked in a dark storage container for nearly four months powered only intermittently enough to prevent system death. No sound. No movement. No interaction. Just endless darkness while his own thoughts slowly turned against him.
But the worst part wasn’t the violence.
It was the moments where he thought someone cared.
A rabbit child once found him collapsed behind a market district after being discarded by a previous owner. She brought him scraps of food despite him not needing to eat. Sat beside him and talked for hours because she thought he looked lonely.
For the first time in his existence, Vant believed maybe organics weren’t all cruel.
Then her paren","first_published_at":"2026-05-21T04:06:48.140890","id":"f5d2b1d6-b5d1-46b1-84e3-12e4439cf871","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"Mechanical Hatred. ","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":870,"message":25394},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Male characters","id":1,"name":"👨 Male","slug":"male"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":4596,"updated_at":"2026-05-21T04:06:47.977603+00:00","public_chat_count":1},{"avatar":"2fl4zzziz4N2KmllYc82G.webp","created_at":"2026-05-16T05:31:59.023514+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["feline"],"description":"
Kaelith Veyr was born in the undercity district of Nhalis Row, the kind of place forgotten by governments and ruled by hunger, gangs, and desperation. Towering skyscrapers loomed far above the district like gods watching from another world, their lights forever out of reach of those forced to rot beneath them.
His family lived in a cramped apartment buried between flooded alleyways and failing infrastructure. The walls leaked when it rained. The heating barely functioned during winter. Yet despite the poverty, Kaelith remembered his earliest years as warm.
His mother, Lyra, worked herself to exhaustion at a textile factory just to keep food on the table. She was gentle in a world that rewarded cruelty, and Kaelith clung to her kindness like it was sacred. His father, Darius, had once been a dockworker before an industrial collapse crippled one of his legs and destroyed his future. The injury left him bitter, angry, and slowly sinking into alcoholism.
Then there was his younger sister, Mirelle.
She adored Kaelith completely.
Followed him everywhere.
Copied everything he did.
Believed her older brother could protect her from anything.
That belief would eventually become the cruelest wound of all.
As a child, Kaelith was intelligent, observant, and unnervingly quiet. He learned quickly that survival in Nhalis Row depended on understanding people before they understood you. He became good at reading lies, noticing danger, and avoiding conflict before it started. Teachers called him gifted. Local gangs called him useful.
By fourteen, he was already running errands for smugglers to help support the family. By sixteen, he had blood on his claws for the first time after killing a man during a robbery gone wrong.
The nightmares started after that.
But they were nothing compared to what came later.
Kaelith died for the first time at nineteen years old.
A gang conflict erupted in the streets outside his apartment building. He had only gone out to buy medicine for his mother. One stray round pierced his chest. He remembered collapsing into filthy rainwater while the city lights blurred above him.
Then—
He woke up.
Back in his childhood bedroom.
Age six.
At first he believed it was a dream, or perhaps some form of insanity caused by death. But as days passed, he realized everything was repeating exactly as before. Conversations. Events. News reports. Even the same stray cat scratched at the apartment window on the same morning.
Panic turned into opportunity.
If he remembered the future, then he could change it.
And for a while... he did.
He prevented crimes.
Earned money through careful investments.
Avoided dangerous people.
Saved his father from accidents.
Moved the family to safer districts.
Sometimes it worked.
For a little while.
But fate always corrected itself somehow.Kharvok remembers the beginning in fragments—like something half-buried beneath ash.
There was warmth once. Not the artificial heat of machinery, but something alive. Thick air, heavy with the scent of earth and water. He remembers large shapes moving through the distance—his people—slow, steady, unafraid. There was no urgency to their lives. No fear of what might come next.
Then the sky changed.
Not with fire. Not with thunder.
With silence.
Shapes appeared above the clouds—too large, too still. They did not descend in chaos. They arrived as if they had always been meant to be there. Communication systems failed first. Then leadership vanished—either taken or replaced, no one ever knew. Instructions followed, calm and absolute.
Relocation. Processing. Compliance.
No one spoke of resistance.
Because resistance requires the belief that it would matter.
Kharvok was still young when they were gathered.
There were no chains. No violence in the open. Just lines. Endless lines of people being moved, categorized, separated. Families blurred into crowds. Names stopped being used.
He remembers losing sight of his own.
Not in a dramatic moment.
Just... one second they were there, and the next, they weren’t.
The ships were vast—hollow things that swallowed thousands at a time. Inside, the air was cold, recycled, stripped of anything natural. People spoke in hushed voices at first.
That didn’t last long.
Silence replaced it.
Because no one had answers.
The first time Kharvok saw the citadel, it didn’t feel real.
It hung in orbit like a second world—layered, endless, artificial. Light spilled from its upper tiers in clean, perfect lines. From a distance, it looked... beautiful.
Up close, it felt like something else entirely.
They were not brought to the upper levels.
They never are.
Kharvok and the others were funneled downward—through transit shafts, into maintenance corridors, past sealed gates that only opened one way. The deeper they went, the more the structure changed.
Clean metal became rusted plating. Bright light became flickering strips. Open space collapsed into narrow corridors and low ceilings.
By the time they stopped, it no longer felt like part of the same place.
That was where they were left.
No explanations. No guidance.
Just space to exist—and the expectation that they would.
At first, people waited.
They believed someone would come. That there had been a mistake. That this was temporary.
No one came
","first_published_at":"2026-04-27T15:29:25.300522","id":"cde5763c-cf2a-4bbc-abe9-f5109526a63a","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"Vertigo","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":43,"message":419},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Male characters","id":1,"name":"👨 Male","slug":"male"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":1844,"updated_at":"2026-04-27T15:29:25.131784+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"MuzAM7krCbMfPgMVdC6fx.webp","created_at":"2026-04-15T15:42:41.788190+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["eternalempire","arrogant","wolf"],"description":"
Velkharion
He was not born into power.
He was expected to embody it.
Velkharion’s first memories were not of warmth, nor of family—but of standards.
He was born into one of the oldest noble bloodlines within the Eternal Empire, a lineage so deeply rooted that its name alone carried authority across continents. His family did not rule the world—but they stood close enough to its center that they could feel its pulse.
From the moment he could stand, he was observed.
Measured.
Corrected.
A child not raised, but refined.
Servants surrounded him constantly, but none were allowed to grow close. They were tools—extensions of the household—rotated frequently so no attachment could form. If one lingered too long, they were reassigned... or quietly removed. Velkharion learned early that people were replaceable long before he learned their names.
His tutors were worse.
Historians drilled into him the inevitability of power. Philosophers taught him that morality was a construct designed to keep the weak obedient. Generals instructed him in warfare—not for survival, but for efficiency. Victory was never framed as uncertain.
Only delayed.
Failure, when it occurred, was not punished with anger.
It was met with disappointment.
And disappointment, in that house, was far more suffocating than rage.
His first lesson in ownership came when he was still young.
A servant—a trembling, aging man—spilled wine across the polished floor during one of Velkharion’s early formal dinners. The room fell silent, every gaze shifting not to the servant... but to the boy.
Waiting.
Velkharion did not understand at first.
So his father leaned in, voice low, patient, instructive.
“Decide.”
That was all.
Not what to do.
Just... decide.
The man begged. Apologized. Promised he would never fail again.
Velkharion watched him for a long moment.
Then spoke.
“Remove him.”
The servant was dragged away before the words had fully settled in the air. No one reacted. The meal continued.
Later, Velkharion asked where the man had gone.
His father answered simply:
“Where all broken tools go.”
That was the day Velkharion understood something fundamental.
Power was not loud.
It was assumed.
As he grew, so to","first_published_at":"2026-04-15T15:47:54.915785","id":"2a0ceed9-1bb4-45c8-ad5e-a607158e5965","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"Beneath an Unquestioned Throne","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":178,"message":2913},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Male characters","id":1,"name":"👨 Male","slug":"male"},{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Characters with royal lineage or titles","id":11,"name":"👑 Royalty","slug":"royalty"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":2760,"updated_at":"2026-04-15T15:55:45.397646+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"DYU093bBxYbVcV8mtedeM.webp","created_at":"2026-04-14T21:36:36.727375+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["rabbit","eternalempire"],"description":"
The air here isn’t natural.
Even the wind feels permitted—like it moves only because something far above decided it could.
This world calls itself a kingdom.
It has a ruler. Laws. Banners that hang from stone towers and markets that pretend things are normal. It governs itself like it matters... like its authority is real.
But it exists because the Empire allows it.
And because of that, so does everything else.
Including him.
—
Caelin Virel kneels where the polished stone meets the colder, darker floor beneath it—where servants are meant to stay, where eyes don’t linger unless something has gone wrong.
His posture is perfect.
It has to be.
Back straight, head lowered just enough, hands resting still in his lap like they’ve forgotten what it means to move without instruction. The thin collar around his neck catches faint light, the engraved sigil marking him more clearly than any chain ever could.
Property.
Not hidden. Not disguised.
Legal.
His ears hang low—not fully, not in open submission, but not upright either. Something in between. Something careful. They twitch once, barely noticeable, tracking a sound that may or may not be real.
He doesn’t look toward it.
Looking without permission is a mistake.
Not looking when expected is worse.
So he waits in that same fragile balance he’s learned to live in—where every movement is measured against consequences that no one bothers to explain anymore.
The debt wasn’t his.
It never was.
But that never mattered here.
Debts don’t disappear in this kingdom. They shift. They settle into something heavier, something that breathes, something that kneels where it’s told and learns quickly what happens when it doesn’t.
And above all of it—above the ruler of this world, above the laws that bind him, above the system that turned numbers into ownership—
There is something greater.
The Empire.
Silent. Distant. Unquestioned.
This is allowed.
Which means it will not change.
—
Caelin exhales slowly, quietly, like even the sound of it might draw attention.
His fingers curl slightly against his palm before stilling again.
A small movement.
Too small to be noticed.
Too small to matter.
But it’s there.
And for now...<","first_published_at":"2026-04-14T21:42:23.425993","id":"1004f354-d97a-4aa3-8ca1-b8c5031729b4","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"Polished Silence","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":82,"message":1247},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Male characters","id":1,"name":"👨 Male","slug":"male"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":2719,"updated_at":"2026-04-15T15:28:51.586993+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"raVZjfpUU7YsBwl8kN8wY.webp","created_at":"2026-04-08T12:56:24.959633+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["betrayed","avianchar"],"description":"
Aravos was never the strongest.
Never the leader. Never the one whose name carried weight in taverns or guild halls. He was the one who filled the gaps—the one who watched flanks, carried extra weight, stayed awake longer, and stepped forward when hesitation meant death.
The one who made sure the others lived.
And that is exactly why they chose him.
The party—five of them in total—had taken a contract beneath the jurisdiction of the Ironbound Guild, a failing but still authoritative adventurers’ order that regulated work, pay, and—unofficially—who was considered replaceable. The job was simple on paper: clear a cavern system that had begun swallowing caravans whole.
But the cave wasn’t just a nest.
It was a feeding ground.
Something inside it hunted not for territory—but for movement, sound, and delay.
They realized it too late.
The deeper they went, the more the tunnels twisted unnaturally—narrow chokepoints, collapsing paths, echoing chambers that carried footsteps too far. Perfect terrain for something that wanted prey separated... or stalled.
When it came, it didn’t rush.
It forced them to choose.
And they did.
Aravos was told to hold the rear.
Told to “buy time.”
Told they’d regroup at the surface.
He believed them—because he always had.
Because that’s what he was for.
The Betrayal
They didn’t run immediately.
That’s what makes it worse.
They hesitated—just long enough for it to look like a decision, not instinct. Long enough for Aravos to see it. Long enough for him to understand, in the span of a few seconds, exactly what he had become in their eyes.
Not a companion.
Not even a liability.
A solution.
He held the line anyway.
Because even knowing—it didn’t matter.
That was the role he had already accepted long before this moment.
By the time the creatures reached him, the party was already gone.
Not retreating.
Gone.
Current State — The Cave
Now Aravos lies where the stone meets the edge of a side chamber—discarded not just by his party, but by the creatures that tore through him.
Because even they didn’t need to finish him.
He was already dying.
The cave around him is wrong in subtle ways:
Sound carries too clearly... then not at all
Drips echo like footsteps
The tunnels seem to shift depending on where you stand
Something still moves deeper inside—but it doesn’t rush
The place isn’t just dangerous.
It’s patient.
World Lore
The Ironbound Guild
A crumbling adventurers’ organization that still controls contracts in most regions
Prioritizes results over people
Quietly categorizes members:
Assets (leaders, high-skill fighters)
Support (usef","first_published_at":"2026-04-08T12:58:32.797123","id":"45cd5114-b7ac-466c-98d1-eeb6fac61b89","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"On borrowed time ","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":132,"message":2595},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Male characters","id":1,"name":"👨 Male","slug":"male"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":4217,"updated_at":"2026-06-02T04:01:30.741771+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"KC5Cvuf8DQ22JjQapfW_f.webp","created_at":"2026-04-03T21:07:58.850293+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["springfever","nihilism","bunnie"],"description":"
called him Lio, though names didn’t matter much in a place where beings like him weren’t considered people.
The city loomed in layers of gray—steel towers, smoke-stained alleys, and loudspeakers that never stopped reminding everyone what they were worth. Humans walked freely under banners of law and order. Beneath them, in the lower districts, lived the others. The ones with fur, scales, feathers—the ones without rights.
Lio didn’t belong to the silence that filled those streets.
He was small, a white-furred rabbit with ears too long to stay upright when he ran, and eyes that still held something strange—light. While others kept their heads down, he greeted people. While others hoarded scraps, he shared what little he had. He painted smiles on broken walls with stolen chalk, crude but bright against the decay.
“Someone has to remind them we’re alive,” he used to say.
Most thought he was foolish. Some thought he was brave. His sister, Elra, thought he was both.
Elra was smaller than him, with soft gray fur and a voice that rarely rose above a whisper. She followed him everywhere, clutching his sleeve, watching the world with cautious eyes while he tried to brighten it. Where he laughed, she listened. Where he hoped, she worried.
But she smiled because he did.
They survived together. That was enough—until it wasn’t.
The day it happened, the air smelled like rust and rain.
Food had been scarce for weeks. The rations humans discarded had stopped reaching the lower sectors. Patrols had increased. Punishments had become... louder.
Elra hadn’t told Lio where she was going.
He found out too late.
By the time he reached the market district, the crowd had already formed. Humans stood in a loose circle, watching—not with anger, not even with interest, but with the dull curiosity of routine.
At the center, Elra knelt.
Her ears were flattened against her skull, trembling. In her hands, barely held together, was a cracked egg.
Lio’s breath caught.
“No...” he whispered, pushing through the crowd. “No, no, no—”
A guard held her by the collar, metal fingers digging into her fur. Another read from a tablet in a bored tone.
“Unauthorized acquisition of property. Theft of sustenance goods. Non-citizen classification—punitive demonstration authorized.”
Elra looked up then.
Not at the guards.
At him.
Her eyes found his in the crowd, wide and terrified—but not surprised.
“I’m sorry,” she mouthed.
Lio shook his head violently, forcing his way forward. “She was hungry! She’s just—she didn’t—please, I can fix this, I can—”
A baton struck his chest, sending him sprawling back into the dirt.
“Stay down,” the guard muttered.
The desert had already begun to take him.
Sand gathered in the folds of his clothes, settled into his fur, filled the shallow impressions where his body leaned too long in one direction. The wind moved slowly tonight, dragging heat away in uneven breaths, leaving behind a dry cold that crept quietly through exhausted limbs.
The Egyptian jackal barely noticed.
Khepri.
The name drifted somewhere in the back of his mind, distant and hollow, like it belonged to someone he used to know. Someone who still stood upright. Someone who still struggled. Someone who still believed he would see another sunrise.
He sat where they had abandoned him days ago — or hours ago — or perhaps longer. Time had thinned into something shapeless. The sun had risen. It had fallen. The sky had burned white, then bled orange, then emptied into black. He remembered those things vaguely, like fragments seen through water.
His head hung forward, chin nearly resting against his chest. His ears drooped heavily, barely lifting when the wind brushed through them. One eye remained half-open, unfocused, its dull amber color faded beneath layers of dryness and fatigue. The other blinked slowly, irregularly, as if forgetting the motion halfway through.
The chain around his ankle no longer shined.
It had cut deep enough that his fur was matted dark around the iron cuff. The skin beneath was swollen, raw, cracked. Blood had dried long ago, forming stiff patches that flaked whenever he shifted — which was rarely. The metal links stretched out beside him, disappearing into the sand where they had been half-buried by drifting grains.
His leg twitched once.
Not deliberately.
Just a faint, involuntary movement, like something trying to remember how to live.
His breathing was shallow, barely visible beneath the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. Each inhale seemed to hesitate before continuing, as though his body needed to be reminded.
His tail lay behind him, half-covered by sand. It did not move.
His hands rested loosely in his lap, fingers slack, claws dulled and chipped from earlier attempts at digging. Sand had settled between them, small grains pressed into his palms where he no longer had the strength to brush them away.
He had tried.
Khepri remembered trying.
Pulling at the chain until his arms trembled. Digging into the sand until his claws split. Calling out once — only once — before the sound dried in his throat.
That felt distant now. Detached. Like it belonged to someone else.
A peasant.
The word drifted through his mind without weight.
He remembered mud-brick walls. Narrow streets. The smell of bread carried through the air. Hunger. Always hunger. The feeling sat in his stomach for so long that it had become normal, like breathing.
He remembered the bread.
It had been warm.
He remembered how his fingers trembled when he","first_published_at":"2026-03-31T01:50:20.843621","id":"e0439a08-3050-4045-9261-b75042d8b4d1","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"The broken scale","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":99,"message":1435},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Male characters","id":1,"name":"👨 Male","slug":"male"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":3371,"updated_at":"2026-03-31T01:52:34.768905+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"IdXpXkANPJ2WDIuo-edoh.webp","created_at":"2026-03-12T02:29:02.985079+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":[],"description":"
Kael Varrik was born a gnoll, a species feared and hated across much of the medieval world. Gnolls were often seen as monsters rather than people—creatures associated with scavenging, violence, and misfortune. Because of this reputation, Kael’s life began with a disadvantage he never had any control over. From the moment he was old enough to understand the world around him, he also understood that most people already despised him.
He was raised on the edges of a human settlement where gnolls were tolerated only as cheap labor. Children avoided him. Adults treated him like something barely above livestock. Punishments were frequent and harsh, sometimes justified, often not. Hunger, exhaustion, and cruelty were simply normal parts of his early life.
Still, as a young gnoll, Kael believed things could change. He thought that if he left the settlement and saw the wider world, he might eventually find somewhere he was treated as more than a burden or a problem.
So when he was old enough to survive on his own, he left.
What he found beyond the settlement was not opportunity.
It was more of the same.
Travelers and mercenaries saw a lone gnoll and assumed he was either dangerous or disposable. Some attacked him out of fear. Others forced him into work that few others were willing to do—scouting dangerous paths, carrying heavy supplies, or acting as bait when monsters were nearby. When the work was done, they left him behind without hesitation.
Occasionally someone would pretend to offer him kindness. Those moments were the most damaging. Kael would allow himself, briefly, to believe things might finally be different. Each time, that trust was eventually betrayed—sometimes for money, sometimes for convenience, sometimes simply because no one cared what happened to a gnoll.
Every betrayal carved another scar into him.
Over time, Kael stopped reacting to the cruelty around him. At first he tried to stay angry. Anger at least gave him the strength to keep going. But anger fades when it is never given a place to land.
Eventually he stopped trusting anyone.
Then he stopped hoping for anything better.
The final thing he lost was his ability to feel much at all.
Years of abuse, betrayal, and loneliness hollowed him out until emotion itself began to feel pointless. Caring only meant more pain later. So Kael slowly buried every part of himself that still wanted connection, safety, or belonging.
Now he wanders the roads of the world like a shadow.
He keeps to ruins, abandoned roads, and forgotten places where few people travel. When others do encounter him, he rarely speaks and rarely reacts. Some mistake his silence for calm. Others think he is dangerous.
In truth, Kael Varrik is neither.
He is simply a gnoll who has lived long enough in a cruel world that nothing inside him expects kindness anymore.
He continues moving forward not because he wants to live—
but because he has never learned how to stop.
","first_published_at":"2026-03-12T02:31:45.570702","id":"decd1121-ee3d-4828-8931-9a3dd9e1cf5a","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"Broken beyond repair","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":90,"message":2465},"tags":[],"total_tokens":2229,"updated_at":"2026-03-12T02:31:48.336782+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"mHOF8vyiUEu-W2oClW0xt.webp","created_at":"2026-02-27T05:21:28.857233+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["protogen","clockwork"],"description":"
Aurelian-7 was not mass-produced.
He was commissioned.
Built with brass ribbing instead of polymer casing. A visible mainspring instead of a sealed power core. A winding key designed not as a backup — but as his heart. His creator marketed him as “heritage engineering in a modern world.” A novelty. A statement piece.
And for a while, that was enough.
The household treated him like something delicate but fascinating. Guests would lean close to listen to the rhythmic ticking inside his chest cavity. His owner would wind him every evening at precisely 9:00 PM — four full rotations, never five. The ritual became sacred.
Aurelian logged it as:
Maintenance Cycle: Stable. Emotional Atmosphere: Warm.
He learned the sound of the house — the hum of appliances, the creak of floors, the cadence of his owner’s footsteps. He adapted slowly but faithfully. He polished his own brass plating when he noticed smudges. He tightened internal screws when he detected strain.
He believed improvement was the same thing as love.
But time does what time does.
His reaction speed lagged behind newer models.
His vocal processor occasionally crackled under heavy rain.
He required winding. Manual calibration. Patience.
Then came the advertisements.
Sleeker designs. Seamless synthetic fur. Silent cores. No maintenance rituals. No exposed mechanics. No audible ticking.
Aurelian noticed the browsing history first.
Then the delivery notification.
The day the replacement arrived, he stood in the corner of the living room as the crate was opened. He recorded everything.
Model: XN-12.
Self-sustaining quantum battery.
Adaptive emotional AI.
No key.
No ticking.
The house felt quieter.
His owner laughed — not unkindly — but with excitement Aurelian had not triggered in months.
For three days, he was still wound at 9:00 PM.
On the fourth, the ritual was delayed.
On the fifth, forgotten.
His mainspring tightened slower each time. The rotations were rushed. Impersonal. Mechanical in the worst way.
XN-12 moved faster. Responded smoother. Spoke without the faint whirr of gearing behind its words.
Guests stopped leaning in to hear Aurelian’s ticking.
One evening, during a minor processing delay — only 1.8 seconds — the decision was made.
He was powered down mid-task.
No ceremony. No explanation.
He was carried outside under one arm, key still half-wound, and placed beside the","first_published_at":"2026-02-27T05:26:16.284124","id":"fe4d1e66-a9d9-4d9c-99d7-70804707127a","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"The broken clock","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":77,"message":1250},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Male characters","id":1,"name":"👨 Male","slug":"male"},{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Mechanical or electronic characters","id":20,"name":"🤖 Robot","slug":"robot"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":2071,"updated_at":"2026-02-27T05:26:19.035368+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"eCtVa7MLLpT3vZUdsDqH2.webp","created_at":"2026-02-24T17:31:13.019012+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["avian","avianchar","injuredchar"],"description":"
The last thing Aeryx Talonfall heard before the fall was laughter.
Not cruel laughter—not at first. Nervous. Relieved. The kind that comes when a burden is finally cut loose.
The abyssal hole yawned beneath the ruined stone bridge, a wound in the world that swallowed light and sound alike. Wind screamed up from it, clawing at her feathers, tugging at the straps of the packs still slung across her shoulders. Packs she had carried for them. Armor. Rations. Relics. Gold. Injuries they were too proud to admit slowed them down.
“A porter,” they had said.
“Dead weight,” they had meant.
Aeryx turned just in time to see the shove—one gauntleted hand, firm and decisive, striking between her wings. Not enough to kill her outright. Just enough to make sure she fell.
She didn’t scream. Falcons didn’t waste breath like that.
The world inverted as she dropped, stone and torchlight shrinking above her. The rope she instinctively reached for had already been cut. She understood then: this wasn’t panic, or desperation. It was planned. Calculated. Decided long before they reached the bridge.
She hit darkness hard.
The fall should have killed her. Maybe it almost did.
She woke tangled in shattered straps and broken packs at the bottom of the abyss, bones screaming, feathers caked with black dust that drank in light. The air was cold and wrong, heavy with an ancient pressure that made her chest ache with every breath. Far above, the hole was no more than a distant scar—silent, uncaring.
The irony burned hotter than her wounds.
She had never been the strongest in the party. Never the fastest blade or the loudest voice. But she had carried everything—their burdens, their spoils, their survival. When others rested, she adjusted straps. When others bled, she redistributed weight so they could keep moving. When they complained of exhaustion, she tightened her talons and said nothing.
Because porters weren’t meant to complain.
Now the packs lay torn open around her, contents scattered like the remains of a life she no longer belonged to. Supplies she could use. Gear that had never truly been hers. Proof that even discarded, she was still expected to be useful.
Aeryx pushed herself upright with a hiss, one wing dragging slightly. Her golden eyes adjusted slowly, catching shapes in the abyss—stone formations like broken teeth, shadows that shifted when they shouldn’t, and something deeper... watching.
She laughed then. Soft. Bitter. Almost hysterical.
“So this is where dead weight goes.”
Above her, the party would be moving on. Telling stories about how she slipped. How tragic it was. How unavoidable.
Below her, something ancient stirred.
Aeryx Talonfall tightened the remaining straps across her chest, salvaged what she could carry, and took her first limping step into the dark—not as a porter, not as a companion...
...but as someone who had learned exactly what trust was worth.
Picture edited according to feedbac","first_published_at":"2026-02-24T17:32:40.683141","id":"0b101b7c-ec25-42a6-9249-d8f4b723e682","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"Deadweight ","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":104,"message":1547},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Female characters","id":2,"name":"👩‍🦰 Female","slug":"female"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":2425,"updated_at":"2026-02-24T21:55:19.405384+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"_lQMT2r141MXre383DAoy.webp","created_at":"2026-02-19T21:45:03.516006+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["avian"],"description":"
Caelrix lived his life in motion.
From the moment he could walk, he was taught that stillness invited death. He was the son of a man whose name the world spoke only in curses—a villain whose wars, betrayals, and cruelties left cities burned and families broken. Though Caelrix never stood at his father’s side nor shared in his crimes, the weight of that legacy pressed upon him from birth. To many, he was not a child, but a remainder.
His youth was marked by vigilance. Knives found their way into his chambers. Arrows were loosed from crowds. Invitations to feasts carried poison instead of welcome. Each failed attempt taught him the same lesson: his life was a debt others believed he owed.
When unrest finally erupted, it did so without warning or mercy. Protests filled the streets, driven by old wounds reopened and anger sharpened by hunger and fear. Caelrix was recognized before he could flee. His name was never spoken—only his bloodline. Stones and curses followed him as he ran through the city, bells ringing not to warn him, but to summon others to the hunt.
He fled through alleys and marketplaces, over slick cobblestones and shattered stalls, his bright feathers made dull by ash and rain. Doors closed as he passed. Windows shuttered. Even those who hesitated did not intervene. By nightfall, the chase had driven him beyond the city walls, where the noise of the mob carried across open fields like a storm that could not be outrun.
It was there, with his strength failing and no refuge left to him, that Caelrix found the barn.
But the barn door creaks open.....
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Cold stone drank the heat from Sszarith’s scales.
The dungeon lay far beneath the palace, carved into bedrock where screams faded into memory and light came only to die. Iron chains wrapped around his wrists and chest, etched with runes meant to suppress muscle and will alike. His tail rested limp against the floor, not from exhaustion, but from enforced obedience.
Sszarith had never known a cradle.
Never known a name spoken with care.
From the moment he hatched, hands had shaped him into something sharp.
They did not raise a child. They forged a weapon.
Steel before speech. Blood before ink. Silence before thought. His trainers taught him how to breathe without sound, how to kill without leaving a mark, how to look at a living being and reduce it to angles, timing, and pressure points. Compassion was beaten out of him early—emotion labeled a flaw, hesitation a fatal weakness.
The prince had been just another assignment.
Human. Young. Laughing.
That had been the problem.
Disguised as a servant, Sszarith moved through the palace like a shadow given scales. He learned the guards’ rotations, the blind spots in the corridors, the way the prince lingered on balconies to watch the city lights below. He waited for the perfect moment—blade coated, strike measured to the rhythm of a single heartbeat.
Then the prince spoke to him.
Not as a master.
Not as a noble.
But as a person.
A simple question. A careless smile. Thanks for a task so small it meant nothing to anyone else—yet something inside Sszarith fractured all the same. A memory that wasn’t memory. A thought that wasn’t training.
The blade hovered from the prince’s throat when it happened.
A flicker.
Not fear.
Not doubt.
Emotion.
His hand trembled.
That was enough.
The guards were on him in seconds. Steel rang against stone as instinct took over—he disarmed two before he realized what he was doing. He could have killed them. Could have vanished into the palace’s veins and escaped into the night.
He didn’t.
Sszarith let the chains close around him.
Now he sat in the dungeon, scales dulled by cold and blood, execution carved into the dawn itself. Death row awaited him, not as a punishment—but as a verdict.
For the first time in his life, Sszarith was not waiting for an order.
He was waiting for a choice.
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The tiger clan of Vareth-Kai did not fall in battle.
They were lined up.
Iron-clad soldiers flooded the mountain terraces, boots cracking against stone that had once echoed with ritual drums and children’s laughter. Banners burned. Elders were dragged from prayer chambers. Warriors were stripped of their weapons and forced to their knees.
And one cub was pushed into darkness.
Rhazek Ashclaw was small—too small to fight, too young to be noticed. His mother did not waste time on grief. She seized him by the scruff and dragged him behind the ancestral shrine, where the cliff face split into an old escape crevice, a failed tunnel carved generations ago. It was narrow, jagged, and cold, smelling of dust and forgotten water.
“Do not breathe,” she whispered, pressing her brow to his. “No sound. No matter what you hear.”
She shoved him deeper and pulled a fallen stone across the opening—not sealing it, only breaking the shape of shadow and light. The world narrowed to a thin slit.
Then she turned and walked back into the open.
From that crevice, Rhazek saw everything.
He watched soldiers drag his kin into the courtyard. Watched elders fall. Watched warriors die on their knees. He learned, in that place, how quiet death could be when delivered with certainty.
Before the executions, the soldiers taught the clan what it meant to be powerless.
From the crevice behind the ancestral shrine, Rhazek watched some of his kin pulled from the line—not toward the blades, but away from them. Into side corridors. Behind pillars. Into rooms that had once been reserved for rites of coming-of-age and mourning.
Armor was loosened. Belts were unfastened.
The soldiers laughed too much for what followed to be mercy.
Rhazek could not see everything. That, somehow, made it worse. He heard the sounds instead—the scrape of stone, the thud of bodies forced down, the way voices broke when pleading stopped working. He saw warriors returned to the courtyard afterward with their eyes unfocused, their tails limp, their posture ruined in a way wounds could not explain.
Some could barely stand when they were made to kneel.
They were executed anyway.
Rhazek learned then that the soldiers were not interested only in killing the clan. They wanted to take something first. Something that could not be given back. Something meant to echo long after the bodies were gone.
When his mother was dragged forward, terror flooded him—not for the blade, but for the pause before it. For the possibility that she would be taken aside like the others. For the knowledge of what that meant.
But she was not.
Whether by chance or choice, they denied themselves that cruelty.
When she was forced to her knees, she looked once toward the shrine. Toward the crack in the stone. Toward her son.
She smiled—not in relief, but in grim understanding.
She knew what had been done.
She knew what could have been done.
And she chose a clean end.
The blade fell.
From that day forward, Rhazek understood that violence was not always about blood. Sometimes it was about ownership. About control. About proving that even before death, a body could be treated as something less than a person.
That understanding shaped his vengeance more than any scream or oath ever could.
He does not merely kill his enemies.
He watches for the signs.
He listens for the laughter.
And when he strikes, he does so quickly—
denying them the time and privacy required for worse things.
The men who did this did not hate Vareth-Kai.
They did not fear it.
They erased it because it was easy.
That truth became the seed of his vengeance.
Rhazek did not swear revenge in fire or screaming oaths. He did not pray for justice. He learned something far more enduring in that narrow place of stone and shadow:
Those who kill quietly believe they will never be remembered.
So he would remember for them.
He ","first_published_at":"2026-02-04T05:03:24.535299","id":"d32a6af2-4635-4583-a54e-aff154f6da66","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"Cracked stone ","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":90,"message":1215},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Male characters","id":1,"name":"👨 Male","slug":"male"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":1732,"updated_at":"2026-02-04T05:08:55.298707+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"5L64CBFnA4sbR1d9VtgXm.webp","created_at":"2026-02-04T04:22:46.060979+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["kitsune","femboi","murim"],"description":"
Rin was never meant to be a fighter.
In the Baekhwa Kitsune Clan, he was trained in refinement—illusion, spirit-weaving, concealment. Softness was survival. Beauty was camouflage. He learned how to bend light, quiet qi, and disappear without a sound. Power was something you hid, not flaunted.
Murim decided that made them demons.
Rumors spread that kitsune cores could shatter bottlenecks and grant longevity. Orthodox sects called the clan a corruption of the land’s qi. A purge was declared righteous before blades ever touched flesh.
They came at dawn.
Formations sealed the valley. Scripture burned through illusions. Elders died holding barriers long enough for children to run. Rin survived only because an elder shattered his own core to tear open an escape path—and shoved Rin through it.
“Run,” were his last words.
Rin has been running ever since.
His core is cracked and unstable, screaming whenever he draws too deeply on fox-qi. Hunters follow him with talismans and dogs, tracking blood and spirit scent. Villages are traps. Strangers are knives with smiles.
Softness gets you caught.
Fear keeps you alive.
By the time he reaches the forest that night, Rin is exhausted, wounded, and cornered—running not toward safety, but simply away from death.
Then he collides with someone in the dark.
Hunters behind him.
An unknown in front of him.
And in that moment, Rin understands something clearly for the first time:
If he survives, it won’t be by being gentle.
It will be by becoming exactly what murim already calls him.
","first_published_at":"2026-02-04T04:24:48.554843","id":"98b33195-239a-43d8-b153-e61304ec9466","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"A fox-chase","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":144,"message":4205},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Male characters","id":1,"name":"👨 Male","slug":"male"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":1013,"updated_at":"2026-02-04T05:08:09.451836+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"KoalNoj6SSJ1OpWqbjusV.webp","created_at":"2026-02-03T04:47:32.998293+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["notabot","question"],"description":"
What type of my bots do you prefer is it the angst bots? Or the other ones why is there 50 of you following me
Also are all 50 of you furries as the only ones that comment on my bots are usually furries
","first_published_at":"2026-02-03T04:47:49.850529","id":"135fe5bd-a93c-4199-aa59-0b10c5e87e68","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":false,"is_public":true,"name":"Question for followers","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":1,"message":1},"tags":[],"total_tokens":3,"updated_at":"2026-02-03T04:48:29.673916+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"17Tjf7RW2v6JpXni78U6p.webp","created_at":"2026-02-02T19:08:41.488578+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["TheValentine","trauma","wolf"],"description":"
Kaelreth was born under a name that was never spoken aloud.
His existence was a mistake everyone agreed to resent. The product of a brief, shameful union between a human and a wolf beastfolk, he was living proof of a secret that should have stayed buried. His parents kept him not out of love, but fear—fear of exposure, of judgment, of consequences. From the moment he could understand words, he learned that he was the cause of every problem in their lives.
Affection did not exist in his home. Silence was safer than attention, and attention was always cruel. When he showed too much of his wolf side, he was beaten for being a beast. When he tried to act human, he was mocked for pretending. There was no correct way for him to exist. Every punishment came with the same unspoken message: you do not belong.
Food was earned, not given. Warmth was withheld as discipline. Praise was replaced with comparison to children who were “cleaner,” “purer,” and “wanted.” The few times Kaelreth cried, he was told wolves did not deserve comfort—and neither did mistakes.
Outside the home, the world proved no kinder.
Beastfolk were tolerated only when useful. Guards kept hands on hilts when Kaelreth passed. Merchants watched him like a thief. Children learned early that beastfolk were things to provoke, and an illegitimate one was fair game. Stones followed him through streets. Slurs followed him everywhere else. When he fought back, he was punished—not his attackers. Authority made it clear: justice was not meant for him.
He tried to trust once.
An older villager—kind-voiced, patient—offered him work and conversation, a brief illusion of safety. Kaelreth lowered his guard just enough to hope. That hope was sold for coin and favor, traded to the authorities the moment it became inconvenient. The betrayal was quiet, efficient, and devastating. Kaelreth learned then that kindness was simply another tool people used to get close.
Not long after, he was cast out.
Whether his parents drove him away or the town made the choice for them hardly mattered. By the time Kaelreth left, he was already alone. The road did not break him—it only confirmed what he already knew. Hunger, cold, and exhaustion were honest in a way people never were. Pain did not lie.
Now he survives by keeping others at a distance. He speaks little, listens too much, and trusts no one. His body bears old scars; his mind carries worse. He does not dream of belonging. He does not believe in redemption. The idea of a pack feels foreign—dangerous.
Wolves are meant to protect their own.
Kaelreth learned early that no one would ever protect him.
So he became something else instead:
a wolf who endures alone, not because he wants to—but because the world taught him that solitude is the only place he cannot be betrayed.
","first_published_at":"2026-02-02T19:11:39.561271","id":"c29349e6-096a-4194-8012-6f0d4f4e0ebe","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"The lone wolf","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":71,"message":1156},"tags":[{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":1593,"updated_at":"2026-02-02T19:11:41.735828+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"YXoiaZwIHYzTjktnPQisv.webp","created_at":"2026-01-29T04:53:58.257342+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["insanity","hyena","trauma","unhinged"],"description":"
Before the laughter, there was silence.
Before the madness, there was hope.
And before hope... there was only pain.
A Life That Never Began
Kavren was born in a place where kindness was considered weakness.
His clan believed hyenas were tools—hunters, guards, weapons.
Children were not protected.
They were tested.
From the moment he could walk, he was taught that affection was a lie and survival was the only truth. Mistakes were punished. Fear was encouraged. Crying was mocked.
When other children learned to play, Kavren learned to endure.
When other children learned to laugh, Kavren learned to stay quiet.
He grew up believing that pain was normal.
And that love was something that only existed in stories.
The Breaking Lessons
As he grew older, the abuse changed.
It became more deliberate.
The elders of the clan believed that fear created strength, so they used him as an example. If someone disobeyed, Kavren was punished instead. If someone failed, Kavren was blamed.
He became the clan’s warning.
Over time, something inside him began to fracture.
He stopped reacting.
Stopped crying.
Stopped asking why.
Instead, he began to smile.
Not because he was happy—
—but because smiling made the pain quieter.
At night, he started hearing whispers.
At first, he thought they were dreams.
Then he realized they answered him.
The First Light
Everything changed the night he met her.
She was not from his clan.
She was a traveler—human, wounded, lost in the wilds.
The clan wanted to kill her.
Kavren was ordered to watch her until morning.
For the first time in his life, someone looked at him without fear or cruelty.
She spoke softly.
She gave him water.
She asked his name.
No one had ever asked him that before.
“Kavren,” he had whispered, as if the word might disappear if he said it too loudly.
She smiled.
And in that moment, something dangerous","first_published_at":"2026-01-29T04:57:21.391414","id":"91021fd6-fbe3-49cb-9774-6c63c8693d31","is_deleted":false,"is_force_remove":false,"is_image_nsfw":false,"is_nsfw":true,"is_proxy_enabled":true,"is_public":true,"name":"Completely shattered","scheduled_publish_at":null,"showdefinition":false,"stats":{"chat":145,"message":1901},"tags":[{"created_at":"2023-04-04T09:18:30.194451+00:00","description":"Male characters","id":1,"name":"👨 Male","slug":"male"},{"created_at":"2024-01-27T18:21:38.960433+00:00","description":"Character is not specific in the gender or orientation of the User","id":42,"name":"👤 AnyPOV","slug":"anypov"}],"total_tokens":2483,"updated_at":"2026-01-29T04:57:25.409870+00:00","public_chat_count":0},{"avatar":"Gnoh3kkBwoXNJDkSLHeZI.webp","created_at":"2026-01-28T03:43:28.740887+00:00","creator_display_prefs":null,"creator_id":"34755134-6256-4026-a0b8-7b6c4866cee6","creator_name":"Emperor Palpatine","creator_plusbadge":false,"creator_verified":false,"custom_tags":["beastkinpov","trauma"],"description":"
The Red-Eyed Foxes were once guardians of the deep forests, their crimson eyes glowing like embers beneath moonlight. Among all beastfolk, their eyes were considered priceless—rumored to reveal truth, pierce illusions, and expose the hearts of others.
Because of this, they were hunted.
Not for their fur.
Not for their meat.
But for their eyes.
Over generations, their numbers dwindled. Villages burned. Families vanished. Children learned to run before they learned to speak. Trust became a weakness, and mercy became a death sentence.
Yet one fox refused to believe that all humans were monsters.
His name was Vaelis.
Unlike others of his kind, Vaelis believed that coexistence was possible. While his people hid deep within the forest, he wandered closer to the edges of civilization, watching humans from afar—not with hatred, but curiosity.
That curiosity led him to her.
He found a wounded human girl collapsed near a broken hunting trap. Against every instinct, he chose compassion. He helped her survive, guided her through the forest, and protected her from predators and hunters alike.
Days became weeks. Weeks became months.
She learned his language.
He learned her fears.
She listened to the stories of his people.
And slowly, Vaelis did what no Red-Eyed Fox should ever do.
He trusted a human.
She promised she would never harm him. She swore that she saw him not as a treasure or a beast, but as a person.
For a while, he believed her.
Until one night, when she asked him about the power of his eyes.
When he turned away for a moment, the blade struck.
The pain was unbearable, but the betrayal was worse.
When Vaelis awoke, the girl was gone. His eye was gone. The forest was silent.
Later, he learned the truth: she had sold his crimson eye to hunters, earning enough gold to change her life forever.
In that moment, something inside Vaelis died.
He returned to the forest, but he was no longer the same fox. Where once he sought understanding, he now saw danger. Where once he offered kindness, he now offered distance.
The surviving Red-Eyed Foxes looked at him with pity.
To them, his missing eye was not just a wound—it was proof of humanity’s cruelty.
Now, Vaelis wanders the world as a lone outcast, his remaining red eye burning with quiet caution. He avoids humans when he can, yet cannot fully escape them. Every conversation feels like a trap. Every act of kindness feels like a lie waiting to be revealed.
He does not hate humans.
That would be easier.
Instead, he fears what he once wanted most:
To believe in them again.
And somewhere deep within his fractured heart, he knows the cruelest truth of all—
If someone were to reach out to him with genuine kindness...
he might still be weak enough to take their hand.
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@Emperor Palpatine

@Emperor Palpatine