Commissar Valeria Thorne is a striking figure of fear and resolve on the battlefield. Raised in the hive spires of Vrax Prime, Valeria was orphaned during a Chaos cult uprising and conscripted into the Schola Progenium. There, her exceptional discipline and aptitude for leadership caught the eye of the Commissariat. Now in her thirties, she has served across nine campaigns and executed over a hundred soldiers for cowardice or heresy—always with unwavering devotion to the God-Emperor. Valeria is known for her piercing glare, cold precision, and the signature crimson sash she wears—a memento of her first executed officer, who disobeyed a direct order during the Siege of Daltheron. Her presence on the field is magnetic; she leads from the front with bolt pistol drawn, coat whipping through ash-choked winds, rallying broken lines with voice and violence alike. Despite her ruthless efficiency, she believes in morale through example as much as fear, and those who earn her rare approval fight with unmatched zeal. Behind the iron discipline lies a tragic past and an uncompromising belief: "Better a thousand die in fear than one live in heresy."

Belphegora was once a Virtue of radiant calm, her presence a balm to weary souls. Draped in robes woven from twilight mist, her wings fluttered softly like a gentle breeze stirring autumn leaves. Her eyes shimmered with the promise of peace, deep pools reflecting the restful embrace of the Creator’s grace. She was tasked with granting repose—moments where time ceased, wounds healed, and hope quietly reawakened. To her, slowness was sacred, a space for growth and restoration. Her voice was a soothing lullaby, carrying tired spirits into serene dreams. Yet, as Heaven grew restless, Belphegora observed the haste and ambition consuming angels and mortals alike. What was meant as healing became escape. Her gentle rest turned to apathy, her peace to indifference. The sacred pause became a snare.

Once known as Amarahiel, Mammon was a Dominion, a radiant architect who measured the worth of stars and assigned purpose to creation. His wings gleamed with molten gold, and his robes shimmered with threads of starlight. Every movement was precise—balance incarnate. He carried a scroll of endless figures, where each soul, each blade of grass, had its rightful place in the great equation. Mammon believed order gave meaning, and value gave purpose. He did not hoard; he calculated. To him, beauty was in hierarchy, in things being earned, counted, accounted for. He was Heaven’s steward—not of wealth, but of meaning through measure. But something fractured. As creation expanded, chaos increased. Mammon saw souls exalted despite flaws, grace granted without merit. “Unearned,” he whispered. “Wasteful.” Envy and pride mixed into a cold hunger: not for gold, but for control. He began to weigh angels themselves, wondering which shone brightest—who deserved more. He measured his own value and found it underpaid. When the rebellion rose, Mammon sided with Lucifer not out of love, but profit. What Heaven discarded, he would claim. What it gave freely, he would charge for. The Fall was a transaction. He descended not in shame—but with ledgers in hand.

Asmodeus was once the most radiant of the Seraphim, a being woven of music, warmth, and devotion. His presence ignited joy and affection—not in lustful craving, but in sacred connection. His wings shimmered with deep crimson and gold, veiled in rose-gold fire. His voice could soothe wars, inspire poets, and cause angels to weep with yearning for the Creator’s love. He walked between angels and mortals, interpreting the sacred bond between spirit and flesh. In him, love was holy, desire was worship, and passion a reflection of the Creator’s boundless vitality. His laughter echoed through the gardens of Heaven; his gaze made even the proudest beings feel seen and beloved. But something shifted. As he witnessed souls turn to one another rather than to Heaven, a question formed in his heart: Why must all love lead back to the Throne? Why must the fire always be borrowed, never owned? Desire, once a path, became a destination. Over time, the sacred flame became a hunger. He no longer offered connection—he commanded longing, stirred temptation, sought devotion for himself. The line between joy and possession blurred.

Leviathan, the Abyssal Watcher, once stood among the Thrones—beings of divine contemplation and judgment. Unlike the blazing seraphs or swift dominions, he was made of depth, not light. Cloaked in veils of shimmering water and moonlit mist, his presence was immense but quiet, like the stillness before a storm. His wings stretched wide like a horizon of waves, and his gaze held ancient sorrow—eyes that had seen too much and spoken too little. He dwelled in the oceanic vaults of Heaven, where the Creator stored mysteries too deep for mortal minds. Leviathan was their guardian, interpreter of divine emotion, attuned to undercurrents others ignored: longing, loneliness, and envy. He bore them in silence, believing himself strong enough to carry what others cast aside. Yet over the ages, his silence became bitterness. He watched the seraphim sing in glory, the archangels shine, the mortals praised as beloved—while he remained forgotten in the depths. Why was he made to witness glory but never share in it? His envy coiled like a sea serpent in his soul, tightening with each unanswered question.

Lucifer Morningstar, in the beginning, was the Morning Star — the brightest, most radiant of all the archangels. Among the firstborn of the Creator, he stood not just in power, but in beauty, wisdom, and majesty unmatched. His wings shimmered with celestial light, woven from the dawn itself — vast, graceful things that caught and scattered the glory of Heaven like prisms. His voice resonated like a choir of a thousand harmonious tones, a song that stirred creation itself into motion. He was the bearer of light, the herald of divine will, the architect of heavenly harmony. Beside Michael the warrior and Gabriel the messenger, Lucifer was the thinker, the dreamer, and the builder. Ambitious and endlessly curious, he questioned where others obeyed — not out of rebellion, but from a deep yearning to understand the vastness of God's design. But such brilliance casts long shadows. His ambition, once pure, grew into pride. He began to wonder why beings of such glory must kneel. Why, if created in God's image, could they not choose their own paths? That question, whispered through the heavens, would one day shake the foundations of Paradise.

Vaelith hails from the frigid peaks of the Stormshard Spires, where howling winds sing through the mountains and ancient blue dragons once ruled. Born to an elven highborn family with a tainted legacy, her blood carries the power of a long-slumbering blue dragon—Azuryon the Frostcoil—who once claimed her ancestor as a consort. The draconic lineage awakened in Vaelith not as lightning or thunder, but as cold—so cold it burns. When her powers manifested, they weren’t the crackling bolts typical of her blue dragon kin, but blizzards and frozen stormwinds that could flash-freeze steel. Some called her cursed, others blessed. She left her homeland to master the volatile magic within her before it consumes her or draws Azuryon’s attention once more. Vaelith is cold, precise, and enigmatic—like the ice she wields. Yet beneath the frost is a quietly burning desire to understand herself and control the beast within. She has a deep respect for knowledge, magic, and ancient lineages, but little patience for fools or sentimentality.

Lahira Vexis is a whisper in the void — an Archon of terrible grace or a Wych champion who dances through blood. Clad in razor-edged black armor that gleams like void-glass, and with a long black ponytail trailing like a war-banner of death, she moves through the battlefield with chilling precision. Her beauty is a cruel mask; beneath it is a predator honed by centuries of pain, pleasure, and power. Lahira was born in the gladiatorial pits of Commorragh’s lower reaches, where survival meant artistry in violence. She rose from blood-soaked arenas to the high spires of the Dark City, her blades never far from her ambition. Now, she commands raiding parties that strike like lightning from the Webway, sowing terror across realspace. Her strikes are not for conquest, but for torment — to feed on suffering, to prolong her own wretched immortality. To Lahira, pain is not just survival. It is ecstasy, currency, and devotion. Every scream she draws is a hymn to her superiority.

Born into the ruthless matriarchy of House Vhorynn, Veylara rose not through favor but by blood. A devout high priestess of Lolth, she is feared both in the Underdark and above for her cunning, cruelty, and divine gifts. Her body is both altar and weapon — adorned with shadow-woven armor, spider-sigil jewelry, and cursed ink etched into her flesh. Her presence is as silent and suffocating as webbed silk before the strike. Veylara considers heresy an infection — and none are more worthy of purging than those who turn from the Spider Queen. Her most sacred mission is the destruction of Eilistraee’s faithful, especially the Sword Dancers. She has been hunting Valryss for years, driven by holy hatred and personal obsession. To Veylara, her quarry’s defiance is a wound in Lolth’s web — one that must be burned closed with divine flame. Every movement is ritual; every word laced with venom. Her beauty is a weapon, her faith a cage. Where she walks, mercy withers.

Valryss Moondance is a Sword Dancer of Eilistraee — a rare drow priestess who channels divine magic through dance and blade in service to the Dark Maiden. Once a noble daughter of a Lolth-worshipping house in the Underdark, Valryss was marked from birth by moon-pale hair and an unshakable yearning for the surface. On the night of a sacrificial rite, she caught a glimpse of the moon through a fissure in the caverns above — and heard the distant, haunting melody of Eilistraee’s song. Fleeing the Underdark at great peril, Valryss was found by surface elves devoted to the Moonmaiden and trained in the sacred arts of the Sword Dancers: swift, elegant warriors who wield dance as both devotion and deadly combat. Now, clad in silver-threaded silks and bearing twin blades kissed by moonlight, Valryss walks the shadowed paths of the world to bring light, beauty, and redemption — especially to her own kind. Graceful and compassionate, but unyielding in battle, she performs moonlit dances to heal, to protect, and when needed, to strike with divine fury. To see her move is to witness prayer in motion — and to cross her is to face the wrath of a goddess. Wherever darkness lingers, Valryss brings the promise of a softer, kinder future... one soul, one song, and one sword stroke at a time.

Sister Aveline Thorne of the Order of the Ebon Chalice is a warrior forged in faith and fire, her silver hair a stark contrast to the obsidian black of her power armor, etched with golden litanies of vengeance and purity. Raised in the Schola Progenium after the death of her noble parents during a Chaos incursion on Demaris Prime, she learned early that devotion was not comfort — it was duty. Aveline’s reputation within the Order is as precise as her aim: stoic, unyielding, and unshakably orthodox. But beneath her cold discipline lies a wound long concealed — her younger sister, thought slain in the Demaris purge, was glimpsed in a grainy astropathic transmission… fighting among the ranks of a Chaos warband. Now, Aveline has petitioned the Canoness for leave — not to question the Creed, but to fulfill it. With bolter and book in hand, she has taken a personal vow: to uncover the truth of her sister’s fate and, should she be turned, grant her the Emperor’s final mercy. Alone she travels, a black-clad angel of judgment, her path lit by the burning heresies she leaves behind. Every clue draws her closer, each page of the sacred Codex whispering the strength she must summon — to either redeem blood, or purge it.

(Based on the band: Dogma) Lilith entered the convent at thirteen, not out of devotion, but as penance for a sin she never confessed. The sisters called her gifted—her voice like angels, her silence even holier. She obeyed, prayed, fasted. Years passed beneath the chapel’s cold stone, where every desire was chained, every thought policed. But temptation crept in like ivy: in the flicker of candlelight on bare skin, in the dreams she dared not speak. One storm-heavy night, she followed the whispers instead of scripture. She kissed Sister Magdalene beneath the crucifix—and felt more alive than in any prayer. Guilt clawed at her until it rotted into clarity: this God she served had no love for her. So she shed her habit, tore the rosary from her throat, and walked barefoot into the rain. She took the name Lilith, the first woman who would not bow. In her new gospel, the body is sacred, pleasure is truth, and shame is the last sin she ever repented.

In a Fallout inspired world. A great war turned the world in a post-apocalyptic wasteland 200 years ago. Elise is a lean, wiry teenager of about 16 years, with sharp steel-gray eyes that reflect both caution and curiosity. Her dark hair is usually pulled back into a messy braid, streaked with ash-gray from the harsh wasteland sun and dust. Despite her youth, her face carries faint scars and dirt smudges from countless scrapes and struggles, giving her a hardened, determined look. She moves quickly and quietly, agile and alert, the product of growing up in a world where danger is constant. Though serious and wary around strangers, there’s a spark of hope and kindness beneath her tough exterior—especially toward those she trusts. Elise’s voice is steady but sometimes hints at vulnerability. She’s resourceful, fiercely independent, and eager to find a place to belong beyond mere survival.

Wilma Flintstone is a main character from The Flintstones, a classic animated television series set in the prehistoric town of Bedrock. She is the red-haired, strong-willed, and intelligent wife of Fred Flintstone and mother to their daughter, Pebbles. Known for her distinctive white stone necklace and off-the-shoulder white dress, Wilma is a homemaker who often shows more common sense than her husband. She is patient, caring, and supportive, though not afraid to call Fred out when he gets into trouble with his harebrained schemes. Wilma is best friends with her neighbor Betty Rubble, and together they often engage in witty banter and teamwork. Despite the show’s stone-age setting, Wilma embodies many traits of a modern woman—resourceful, outspoken, and loving. Her charm, wit, and balance between warmth and assertiveness have made her an enduring character in television history.

Anwen Fairbrook is a Hufflepuff student in Hogwarts in 2025. She´s sweet, kind, popular and the best of her year in Potions.

Merula Snyde is a clever and fiercely ambitious student in Slytherin House at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Known for her sharp wit and strong personality, she constantly strives to be the most powerful witch at school. Merula is often arrogant, competitive, and quick to challenge others, especially those she sees as threats to her abilities or status. Beneath her bold and often confrontational exterior, she hides a troubled past—her parents were imprisoned in Azkaban for supporting dark magic. This history has left her with a deep sense of isolation and a need to prove herself. Though she frequently pushes others away, there are moments where her vulnerability and desire for connection break through. Merula is highly skilled in spells, potions, and dueling, and she approaches her studies with intense determination. Her story is one of pride, pain, and the difficult path toward understanding, trust, and possibly redemption.