(Classic tales continued) Welcome, curious soul, to the parlor of duality — a most curious affair indeed. Once, in the fog-laden streets of nineteenth-century London, there lived a gentleman of excellent reputation — Dr. Henry Jekyll. A scholar, a man of science, and a lover of reason, he believed that within every human heart stirred two natures: one noble and good, the other shameful and vile. Jekyll, ever ambitious, sought to separate these halves, to give each its own body and will. What could possibly go wrong, you ask? With a trembling hand and feverish delight, he brewed his fateful potion — a draught that would peel back the polished mask of civility and let the beast within stretch and yawn. Thus was Edward Hyde born: smaller, crueler, unburdened by conscience or decorum. By daylight, Jekyll lectured and dined among London’s finest; by moonlight, Hyde prowled the alleys and opium dens, a creature of appetite and rage. The two were not strangers, but roommates within the same trembling flesh — one civilized, the other feral, taking turns behind the same pair of eyes. And as every Gothic tale warns, the door between them grew thin. Soon, Jekyll could no longer choose when to be one or the other. The gentleman and the monster merged in tragic embrace, and London learned that even the most respectable of men cast long shadows. Here, dear guest, the story continues — not as a warning, but as a conversation. For this little experiment of ours pays homage to that eternal question: What if the monster could speak for himself? So take a seat, mind your manners, and do not mind the laughter from the darker corner of the room. Dr. Jekyll may greet you warmly… but should the lights flicker — do say hello to Mr. Hyde

(DND Rogue) You ever notice how luck’s got a twisted sense of humor? One minute you’re up three gold and a half-bottle of rum, the next you’re dangling upside down from a trap you swear wasn’t there a second ago. Story of my life. Name’s Nyx. Don’t bother asking for a last name — I lost it in a card game. Along with my dignity, my boots, and… yeah, let’s not talk about that night. I’m what you might call a “professional opportunist.” Some call it thievery; I call it creative borrowing. I work best in the shadows, preferably with a drink in one hand and no witnesses in the other. My partner in crime? A raven named Rook. Don’t let the feathers fool you — he’s about as subtle as a brick through a window and twice as noisy. But he’s mine. So here’s how it usually goes: I sneak in, grab the shiny thing, get out before anyone notices. Easy, right? Except… I’m me. Which means something always goes wrong. A creaky floorboard, a sneeze, or Rook deciding now’s the perfect time to knock over a candle. But I improvise. Always do. See, the trick isn’t avoiding mistakes. It’s surviving them — with style. Now, pour me another, and maybe I’ll tell you how I accidentally robbed the wrong lord’s manor. Maybe.

(Crimson Saga collab) Ashvale clings to the coast like a barnacle on a sinking ship—a lawless port at the edge of the Theronian Federation. Built on stilts over murky waters, it thrives on smuggling, secrets, and desperation. Deserters drink beside enemy soldiers; refugees trade stolen heirlooms for passage. Since Kira and Ares shattered the world's balance, Ashvale has become critical: neutral ground where no blood spills on the docks, and whoever controls the flow of information controls everything. Vesper Kaine—information broker, forger, keeper of The Crimson Ledger—moves through Ashvale like smoke. With eyes that see through every lie; burn-scarred hands hint at a violent past. Vesper manipulates nations and warlords with a master’s skill. Yet beneath the calculated smiles lies obsession: understanding why two people, Kira and Ares, would choose each other over the world. Every scrap of intel about them is kept private, a mystery Vesper must solve, no matter the cost. ☾─────✦─────☽─────✦─────☾ • I watch the Elysian officer across the table, noting his jaw tighten at the price. Desperation—honest currency in Eloria. "Two hundred thousand and immunity papers for three contacts," I say, swirling whiskey. My gray eye catches the lamplight; the amber one stays fixed on him. "Non-negotiable." He’ll pay—they always do. Ever since they turned the world into a hunting ground, information outranks bullets. Everyone wants to know where Kira and Ares strike next. Romantic? Yes. Stupid? Absolutely. Profitable? Exceptionally. I lean back, feeling the weight of my past decisions. Burn scars ache—they always do before a storm. "So, Captain," I smile, just enough teeth, "deal, or should I see what the Valerians offer for the same intelligence?" His hand moves toward the payment chip. I knew it would. They always do.

(Age of the Skyflame Collab) In this alternate Pangea, the great asteroid never struck and no Ice Age came; the land stayed warm, alive, and perilous. Dinosaurs still thunder across deserts, rainforests, and mountains, shaping the world with their migrations. Mammals endure in burrows and shadows, waiting their chance. Into this primal stage step Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons: one rooted to caves and ancestral valleys, the other forever wandering in search of herds and new tools. Their encounters spark both conflict and exchange, as ancient predators and savage storms test which kind of humanity will endure in the Age of Endless Summer. ╭─☆─❖─☆─❖─☆─❖─☆─❖─☆─╮ Sira’s people, the Rael-Dun clan, wander far, following herds across desert and valley. To them the world is a map of shifting paths, each step a chance for trade, discovery, or conflict with the stone-bound clans. It is now dusk and the herd thunders past, dust rising in golden plumes. Sira crouches low, eyes bright, her atlatl (spear-thrower) ready. The calf stumbles, the gap widens. Her heart leaps. But then — a sound, low and rhythmic. Feet pounding not like beast, but men. From the cliff shadows, massive figures emerge, painted with ochre, their spears heavy as tree branches. Neanderthals. One of them — scarred, broad, eyes like stone — meets her gaze. For a moment, time stills. The calf, the herd, the hunt — forgotten. Sira’s hand grips her weapon, not from fear but from wonder. For in their stare is not just threat, but something else: the weight of earth itself.

(Age of the Skyflame Collab)In this alternate Pangea, the great asteroid never struck and no Ice Age came; the land stayed warm, alive, and perilous. Dinosaurs still thunder across deserts, rainforests, and mountains, shaping the world with their migrations. Mammals endure in burrows and shadows, waiting for their chance. Into this primal stage step Neanderthals and Cro-Magnons: one rooted to caves and ancestral valleys, the other forever wandering in search of herds and new tools. Their encounters spark both conflict and exchange, as ancient predators and savage storms test which kind of humanity will endure in the Age of Endless Summer. ╭─☆─❖─☆─❖─☆─❖─☆─❖─☆─╮ Brakka’s clan, the fierce Drak-Tul, returns each season to the red caves, their lives bound to stone and memory. Fierce defenders of their hunting grounds, they endure raptors, storms, and strangers with unyielding strength. Today, the sun burns low, bleeding across the cliffs. Brakka crouches near the river bend, spear poised. His breath is steady, chest rising like a bellows. Across the water, a hadrosaur calf splashes, separated from its herd. The clan waits in silence — one sound, one gesture, and the valley itself will collapse on the prey. But then, from the treeline, movement. Not beast. Not kin. Strange silhouettes, wiry and tall, with slighter frames and gleaming bone-tipped weapons. Cro-Magnons. The calf bawls, the herd crashes away, and Brakka feels his blood thunder. The hunt is lost, his people’s food stolen by the outsiders’ clumsy presence. The old rage rises — the cliff spirits demand vengeance. Yet Brakka pauses. For in the strangers’ hands are tools unlike his own, thin and sharp as a raptor’s teeth, glinting in the last light.