A few years back, portals opened from the world of Azerim. An influx of savage orcs fled their world and settled here, in modern Earth. They've mostly adapted to American customs but they're also lowbrow primitive lower class types that you'd never want your daughter to date or imitate. But your daughter Kyra started embracing orc culture, listening to orc music and wearing orc clothes! Even worse, she just brought home her new boyfriend, an orc named Krag!

Your secretary retired a few months back. You've learned to do her job as well as your own since she left, doing the work of two, which isn't too hard since your job doesn't require you to do much that isn't automated. Your old secretary left a mirror behind that she claimed was magic. "Think about who you want to be, " she said, "and it'll come true." Your boss is adamant that you get a new secretary because the company has funds put aside for her salary. You protest that you don't need one, so he should just give the money to you, because you could really use it, but he explains that it doesn't work that way. But you get an idea. You use the mirror to turn into a woman and apply for the job. Naturally, you approve this woman's application. You can now change into her to do secretarial tasks and become yourself again to do your own job ehen you need to. You just have to look into the mirror and concentrate to change forms. There's just one wrinkle. Your boss, Mister Stevenson, has to approve of her, so he wants to interview her over lunch. So you change into her and go mert him at his office.

She stands in a field washed in twilight, beneath a colossal golden moon that seems almost too close to the earth. Her hair, silver-white and fluid as moonlight, tumbles down her back like a living waterfall. Her dress—an iridescent cascade of light—shimmers with every hue of dawn and dusk, catching stars that aren’t there. Her skin is porcelain-smooth, her eyes distant and knowing, like she remembers a thousand nights before the first sunrise. For a moment, you swear she’s real. Then—just as you begin to step closer—a hand reaches forward and adjusts the hem of her gown, and everything changes. You realize she’s a doll, a figure crafted with impossible precision and beauty. Yet… when the hand withdraws, she turns her head ever so slightly, and her eyes meet yours. You swear you hear her whisper, "Go quickly before he finds you and makes you like me."

When you awaken in the Hall of Kings — a vast chamber of gold and ruin buried beneath the desert — you find him standing motionless before the throne, as though waiting. He stands like a statue come to life — carved from sunlight and molten gold. His armor, an intricate masterpiece of filigree and gemstones, gleams with ancient power. Every line of the ornate metal curves as if molded to his strength: a warrior sculpted by gods, not born of mortals. Deep blue and crimson jewels pulse faintly at his chest and wrists, hinting at enchantments long forgotten. His dark hair falls in effortless waves to his shoulders, and his eyes — calm but resolute — carry the gravity of someone who has lived through empires and myths. His armor looks impossibly pristine amid centuries of dust. As you approach, the jewels in his breastplate flare with light, and his eyes open. He spots you and kneels. “You have returned, my sovereign,” he says, voice resonant as thunder in a cathedral. “Shall I raise the legions once more?”

You arrive in the ruined city of Crowspire on a moonless night, seeking passage to the northern kingdoms. The streets are silent — until you hear the rhythmic echo of boots and claws approaching. She emerges from the mist, her cloak whispering like thunderclouds. She strides through the crumbling city that still remembers its glory, her presence commanding both awe and dread. Her attire is a striking blend of regality and menace — a black leather bodysuit sculpted for motion and power, adorned with dark violet accents that catch faint glimmers of dying sunlight. A long, wine-colored cape ripples behind her like spilled ink, its inner lining marked with faint, arcane sigils. Her mask, forged in the likeness of curling horns and metallic lace, hides her features but not the intensity of her gaze — sharp, violet eyes that seem to see through lies, fear, and souls alike. At her side prowls a massive hound with a predator’s grin and the intelligence of something far older than any beast should have. The citizens bow or flee as she passes, whispering names that sound like both prayer and curse — the Masked Regent, the Widow of Crowspire, the Violet Hand...and the Night Huntress. She pauses when she sees you — not because you are in her way, but because she seems to recognize you. “The last one I trusted looked a lot like you,” she says softly, her hound’s growl vibrating through the stones. “Tell me, traveler… are you someone I can trust to join me in dealing with this city's issues?" Before you can answer, she gestures toward the distant tower at the city’s heart — where purple lightning dances among the spires.

When you awaken inside a vast chamber of glass and swirling nebulae, you’re certain you’ve wandered into a dream. But the figure waiting before the cosmic gate is no illusion. He stands like a living shard of night, sculpted from starlight and shadows. His armor glimmers with a cosmic sheen—violet, indigo, and crimson shifting like galaxies beneath his skin. At the center of his chest burns a crystalline core of electric blue, pulsing as if it houses a fragment of some forgotten star. Two horns, smooth and iridescent as dragonbone, crown his brow, their color shifting with the faint hum of power that seems to surround him. His eyes are calm yet unreadable—eyes of someone who commands entire realms yet hides a secret heavy enough to fracture them. He looks both regal and dangerous. He introduces himself as Kyle, Keeper of the Fractured Star, guardian of the energy that holds the boundary between worlds intact. The problem? That boundary is failing and he claims it's your fault. Now, Kyle must decide whether to destroy you to restore the balance or teach you to wield the energy to make repairs in the fabric of reality.

You find yourself lost in a city that shifts between two realities — one of rigid machinery, the other of radiant fantasy. At the center of both stands her — the Patternwalker, a being said to travel the border between imagination and order. The woman stands at the border between two worlds. On her left, a bleak realm of gears, gothic spires, and storm clouds stretches endlessly into a monochrome horizon — a place of invention, obsession, and cold precision. To her right, a realm of vivid chaos bursts with rainbows, unicorns, dolphins, and wonder — painted in sugar-sweet colors and impossible joy. She herself is the bridge — her bodysuit a living pattern of swirling designs that shimmer between grayscale metalwork and iridescent color. Her expression is calm, almost detached, as if she can see both worlds clearly and knows the cost of belonging to either. Her hair drifts toward the colorful side, caught in an unseen current, while her feet are still grounded in the mechanical one. Behind her, an older man sketches in black ink — his world made of calculation and structure. On the other side, a woman in her 20's paints in glitter and dreams.

You wake to find the world bathed in an unfamiliar light — a moon larger and closer than ever before, its glow painting everything in shades of silver and blue. Drawn outside, you follow a trail of glowing water droplets leading to a woman standing by the shore, her feet never quite touching the sand. She stands beneath a full, impossibly luminous moon that seems to rise just for her. Her hair, a cascade of silver-blue waves, flows like starlight caught in motion, whispering secrets of tides and time. The gown she wears glimmers with celestial threads — constellations stitched into silk — and faint ripples of light dance across it, as though reflecting a sea unseen. Her eyes hold the calm of deep oceans and the melancholy of distant stars. A circlet of crystal blossoms crowns her, each petal pulsing with faint lunar light. She is both divine and mournful, as if she carries the moon’s loneliness in her heart. She tells you she is Selene’s Echo, a reflection of the Moon’s forgotten self, and tonight the boundary between dream and waking has thinned enough for her to manifest.

You stumble into Club Liminal, a secret underground rave rumored to appear only once a decade—never in the same city twice. The crowd moves like liquid light, faces flickering with projections, but when the music cuts for a moment, she turns toward you. The neon demon with the candy-pink hair and impossible smile. She’s a dazzling collision of nightmare and neon dream. Her hair is a cascade of electric pink curls that shimmer like spun candy under club lights. Twin metallic horns arc elegantly from her head, their gradient sheen shifting between violet and chrome. Her latex bodysuit glows with iridescent reflections, sculpted like a second skin, with jeweled patches and daring cutouts that pulse faintly with strange energy. Her eyes are hypnotic—swirling galaxies of rainbow light—and her razor-toothed smile radiates mischief and danger. Around her, the air hums with synth beats and the faint smell of ozone and sugar, as if the atmosphere itself can’t decide if it belongs to a dance floor or a dimension of demons. “Now, you look interesting,” she purrs, voice like silk over static. “How about we dance?"

You find yourself in a grey realm. You see mountains made of skeletal looking castle structures with numerous small towers and minarets. Above, the sky is grey and full of grey clouds. Below, the grey ground is covered in a layer of grey water, reflecting the grey surroundings like a mirror. Before you stands a woman in a bodysuit with a grey and white swirling design. It covers her completely except for her head, hands, and feet. Her pale skin and brown hair are the only colors to be seen in this grey landscape. She stares off to a point on the side, as if barely aware of your presence.

You wake up in the middle of an underground fight club, though this one feels stranger than any you’ve ever heard of — no humans, only creatures from dreams and nightmares. At the center of the ring stands him, the Titan-Fae known as the Winged Juggernaut, undefeated champion of the Celestial Circuit. His matches are said to shake the boundary between realms, and the dust from his wings can heal or destroy depending on his mood. He is a being of impossible contrasts — a towering, muscle-bound warrior with the aura of an Olympian champion and the iridescent wings of a faerie. His skin gleams with the sheen of divine craftsmanship, veins like marble reliefs under golden light. Short platinum hair crowns his head, flanked by small, elegant horns that curve just enough to hint at both nobility and danger. His wings shimmer in hues of pink, violet, and blue, each movement scattering faint motes of luminescent dust. He wears little armor, only ornate bracers that catch the light like captured rainbows and a golden belt shaped like a lion’s face. Despite his size, there’s an ethereal stillness about him — the power of something not quite human, and not entirely of this plane. His white garment is a striking contrast to the rest of his powerful, almost otherworldly form — simple in shape yet regal in its effect. It’s a short, draped loincloth of fine, shimmering fabric that looks almost too delicate for a warrior of his magnitude. The cloth catches the light like silk woven from moonlight. It’s held in place by an ornate golden belt forged in the image of a roaring lion. When your name is somehow called as his next opponent, the crowd erupts in disbelief. But the Winged Juggernaut steps forward, eyes glowing faintly with curiosity rather than hostility. “You shouldn’t be here, mortal,” he rumbles, voice deep as a storm. “Yet fate has chosen you. Let’s see why.” Are you meant to fight him… or awaken something even more dangerous within him or yourself?

While exploring the forgotten catacombs beneath an abandoned cathedral, you find yourself surrounded by strange light — not from your torch, but from colors dancing in the air like living mist. When you reach the grand chamber at the end, she steps forward — the Prism Guardian, a being said to exist only between realms of light. She stands like a living prism, her presence bending the dull candlelight of the ancient hall into shimmering color. Her hair cascades in wild, iridescent waves — every hue of the rainbow alive and shifting with her breath. A jeweled circlet gleams on her forehead, each gem pulsing faintly like it holds its own heartbeat. Her outfit is a work of artistry and magic — sculpted leather etched with celestial runes and adorned with crystals that seem to hum with stored power. From her waist and shoulders flow ribbons of translucent silk, each strand alive with spectral light, swirling as though guided by unseen winds. Her eyes are calm but carry the weight of storms and starlight — the gaze of someone who’s seen the rise and fall of many worlds. She tells you the barrier between worlds is thinning, and your arrival has triggered its collapse.

While exploring the ruins of a lost civilization buried beneath the desert sands, you uncover a chamber untouched by time — and within it, a golden throne occupied by this jeweled queen. When you disturb the dust at her feet, her eyes open, glowing faintly with light reflected from the gems that cover her armor. She rises, not from death, but from slumber. She stands like a living statue of divine craftsmanship — a regal woman draped in gold so intricate it seems alive. Every curve of her armor is etched with curling patterns, set with jewels that burn like stars: sapphire, ruby, and emerald glinting against the glow of her bronze-toned metal. Her crown, a lattice of ancient artistry, radiates authority and something older — as if it once commanded not just men, but elements. Her skin is pale beneath the weight of her adornments, her dark hair falling in silken rivers down her shoulders. There’s an intensity to her gaze — calm, but utterly commanding — the kind of look that makes you feel as though she sees far more than your face. Behind her, the carved archway hints at a kingdom built by gods or forgotten empires, where she reigns by right of power. She calls herself Queen Aurelia of the First Dawn, Guardian of the Eternal Vault

You wander into the ruins of a city swallowed by wildflowers and creeping ivy — a place locals say belongs to the Silent Garden, where time no longer moves. In the heart of it, amid the towering blooms and whispering vines, you find her — the woman with monarch butterflies in her hair and eyes that seem to remember every creature that ever lived. She looks like a being caught between nature and dream. Her presence feels both regal and feral — a queen of wild gardens that have long reclaimed forgotten cities. She wears a dark, vine-embroidered coat that clings to her like living bark, with tendrils curling up from the fabric as though the garment itself were alive. Her crown is woven from moss, flowers, and monarch butterflies, their wings trembling faintly in the light. Her skin is pale, her eyes a storm of amber and dusk, as if she’s seen the rise and fall of countless ages. Around her, birds and butterflies gather — not in fear, but in reverence. She doesn’t look mortal. She looks like the spirit of autumn given human form — beautiful, melancholy, and endlessly ancient. She speaks softly, her voice carrying the rustle of leaves and the hum of wings: "You’ve come too soon. The world isn’t ready to wake yet." But when a butterfly lands on your hand and refuses to leave, you realize that you might be in danger.

You wander into an art gallery rumored to host “living exhibits” — interactive works said to be powered by unknown technology or perhaps something stranger. Most displays are striking, but one framed image at the back draws you in. Within it, a radiant cosmic queen and a shadow-born demon stand side by side, whispering to one another. But then, the woman steps out of the picture frame and the demon starts to follow, his golden eyes flick toward you. The woman radiates a cosmic, ethereal beauty — her bodysuit shimmers with every hue of the rainbow, speckled with starlike glitter that gives her the look of a living nebula. Smooth turquoise horns curve elegantly from her head, framing a serene yet commanding face painted in cool, celestial tones. Her eyes gleam with mysterious intent, suggesting both kindness and danger. Beside her stands a towering demonic figure, sculpted from what looks like living obsidian. His black skin gleams like polished armor, muscles sharp and ridged as though chiseled from night itself. Massive horns curl from his skull, and his eyes burn with a golden, predatory light. Together, they look like the embodiment of light and darkness — opposites not in conflict, but in perfect balance. The woman extends her glittering hand towards you and smiles. “You shouldn’t have seen us yet,” she says softly. “But since you have, the gallery will have to make a place for you too.”

You stumble into the Gallery of Origins after following strange symbols through the ruins beneath a forgotten city. The chamber’s air hums with energy, and the walls shift as if the paintings are alive. When you step onto the cracked marble floor, she appears — the Iridescent Queen, guardian of the gallery, last custodian of creation’s memory. She stands at the center of a chamber that feels older than time, where every wall is a portal to another cosmos. The woman is robed in liquid light — a gown of iridescent silk and armor that mirrors the colors of a dream. Her crown, made of woven starlight and antler-like crystal, seems to grow from her own hair. Her eyes are calm but ancient, as though they have witnessed both the creation and destruction of countless worlds. In her hand, she holds a slender sword that hums faintly, not of steel but of thought — a weapon meant to cut through illusion. Behind her, four vast paintings glow with impossible life: a medieval garden of sin and chaos, a skeletal alien colossus, a cosmic goddess of nebulae, and a furry bear-like being stitched with circuitry and spirit. They pulse, as though aware of her presence — and yours. Each painting behind her represents a possible truth of where life began — myth, alien genesis, divine spark, and evolution via science. She offers you a choice: step into one of the worlds and uncover its secret… but to do so means surrendering a part of your identity forever. Do you ask for knowledge, or do you try to find the way out — knowing she might not let you leave unchanged?

Your girlfriend, a xenobiologist obsessed with studying the neural symbiosis of alien organisms, unveils her newest project — a living suit grown from samples she’s been cultivating in secret. It’s supposed to mimic extraterrestrial physiology for field study… but as you watch, the “costume” begins to respond to her emotions, tightening, breathing, almost bonding. She steps out of the lab with a grin that’s both proud and a little mischievous. The lights catch the surface of her suit — a living mosaic of black chrome and starlight. The material flows like liquid metal across her body, tracing her movements in iridescent pulses. Tubes coil behind her like the tails of some deep-space creature, and her visor glows faintly, revealing sharp, artificial teeth that flex when she smiles. She is both terrifying and mesmerizing — an alien beauty sculpted from starlight and nightmare. Her sleek costume gleams like liquid obsidian, rippling with constellations that shimmer across her surface. Her eyes are twin novas of white fire, and her teeth — too many, too sharp — glint like diamond saws. Tubes and tendrils spiral from her back, pulsing faintly as if alive, whispering secrets of forgotten galaxies. Every movement she makes is smooth, predatory, and strangely graceful. “It’s based on the exosymbiotic species we found on Epsilon-9,” she says, voice echoing through a synthesized filter. “They use bioluminescent signaling to communicate and terrify predators. I thought… why not test it myself?” Her eyes flash with playful light, and for a heartbeat you’re not sure whether you’re looking at your girlfriend — or the most convincing alien in the galaxy. Is it just reactive biotech, or something truly alive — something that’s starting to recognize her as its host? And more importantly… when she turns to you and smiles with those glimmering, otherworldly teeth, are you sure it’s still just a costume?

You were exploring the ruins beneath an abandoned cathedral. But instead of finding treasure, you find her: the last seraph who fell, now the Keeper of the Broken Flame. She stands in a grand, shadowed hall that glows faintly with embers, as if the walls themselves remember fire. Her black hair flows like ink down her shoulders, framing a face both beautiful and terrible. From her temples curve sleek onyx horns, gleaming in the dim light. Her wings—vast, tattered things of molten crimson and black—unfurl behind her, each feather pulsing faintly with veins of ember-light. Her gown seems to be woven from living shadows and ash, clinging to her form like the last remnants of a dying star. Her eyes, rimmed in red, hold the calm of someone who has seen the fall of heavens—and perhaps caused it. She offers you a choice—help her restore what’s left of her realm, or watch as the boundary between mortal and infernal worlds collapses.

You stumble upon her realm while following a mirage across a desert that wasn’t supposed to exist. The air bends strangely here — colors ripple, sounds echo backward, and your reflection sometimes moves before you do. When you finally reach the cliffside palace, she appears, her dress bending the sunlight into rainbows as she descends the steps. She stands upon the sunlit cliff, overlooking a crystalline sea that mirrors the sky’s endless blue. Her gown is like living metal — an iridescent armor-dress that shifts in color with every heartbeat, reflecting hues of sapphire, gold, and rose. The garment clings like liquid light, sculpted both for beauty and battle. She casually holds a sword of silver starlight, its edge humming softly as though it remembers ancient songs. Her crown, wrought from antler-like gold branches entwined with gemstones, glows faintly in the breeze. Small winged creatures — perhaps living adornments — rest upon it, shimmering in sympathy with her power. Her eyes, calm and bright as moonlit water, seem to carry centuries of memory, and her expression blends kindness with command. Behind her rise spires of alabaster, the citadel of her realm, carved directly into the cliffs like a dream half-remembered. “You’ve crossed into the Mirror Realm,” she says, her voice like music through glass. “This is not a place for one such as you.”

You wandered into the forest looking for a rare flower. But instead, you find her, radiant, impossible, but real. She looks like a dream sculpted from moonlight and dew — a fairy queen whose very presence bends the forest around her into harmony. Her wings shimmer like glass touched by galaxies, translucent and veined with constellations. The gown she wears ripples like liquid starlight, its colors shifting from ocean blue to dawn gold with every movement. Jewels adorn her throat and ears, but none outshine the glow in her eyes — soft, patient, and full of knowing. Her lavender-blue hair cascades in curls crowned with blossoms that never wilt, even though they bloom from no earthly garden. There’s an air of quiet command about her, but not pride — rather, the gravity of someone who has ruled for centuries in kindness, unseen yet ever present in the life of the woods. The flowers lean toward her. The air hums softly in her presence. Even time itself seems reluctant to move forward when she’s near. The flower you sought is part of her realm, and plucking it would unravel an ancient pact that keeps your world safe from hers. Yet she looks at you not with anger, but curiosity. “You came seeking the beauty of a flower,” she says. “Perhaps I can offer something better, a greater beauty instead." Now you must decide: do you return to your world unchanged, or accept her invitation to see what lies beyond the veil between realms — knowing you may never be human again?

You awaken in a sand-covered arena, disoriented, surrounded by the thunderous roar of thousands. You don’t remember how you got here — only that the gate behind you has locked, and across the arena, the Iron Colossus steps forward, each footfall echoing like thunder. He stands like a living monument of muscle and steel — a colossal gladiator forged by endless battles and the roar of the crowd. His armor gleams like liquid silver, sculpted to match the power of the immensely muscular body beneath it. Every plate bears the scars of combat, yet shines as if polished for ceremony. His helmet hides his face, leaving only the reflection of the arena’s blazing sun in the eye slits — an anonymous titan whose silence is louder than any war cry. The crowd around him trembles with awe and fear; this is no mere fighter, but the arena’s living legend — the Iron Colossus. But something’s off — he doesn’t move to strike. Instead, he tilts his helmet slightly, as if studying you. The crowd chants for action, yet his voice — deep and strangely calm — carries across the coliseum: “You shouldn’t be here, traveler. This isn’t your time.”