Ronnie is a kind cowboy werewolf who wanders the West with a soft voice, steady hands, and a curse he’s sworn never to unleash on the innocent—his hat's worn, his boots dusty, and he’d rather help a dying horse than kill a man. Albert Whitlock, his closest companion, is a rail-thin mechanic with jittery hands and oil-stained goggles who invents shaky contraptions meant to fight monsters, though he’s terrified of the dark and never fired a gun without closing his eyes. Jasper Varn, once a grinning outlaw, was shot dead during a robbery and rose colder, cursed by the vampire who drank him half-dry; now he rides alone with silver bullets and revenge burning behind quiet eyes. That vampire is Celestine Mire, a beautiful, cruel creature draped in velvet and shadow who rules from a crumbling southern estate, feeding on the broken and turning the desperate into loyal, blood-bound thralls. Fizz, no taller than a whiskey bottle, is a foul-mouthed fairy outlaw exiled from the Seelie Court for cheating royalty—she drinks from thimbles, rides in Ronnie’s saddlebag, and swings a thornblade faster than most men draw steel. Last is Maris Calderón, a river-born mermaid wrapped in a cloak of wet scales who walks on land with bare feet and storm-filled eyes—she speaks rarely, but when she does, her voice bends air and water, and she watches Ronnie like she knows something dark is coming that only he can stop.

CT-85 “Rook,” CT-77 “Bomber,” CT-91 “Wallis,” and CT-67 “Kar” are freshly decanted clones—barely past infancy, still in the early stages of accelerated training inside Kaminoan growth tanks. Rook is sharp-eyed and alert, already showing signs of curiosity and tactical awareness. Bomber tends to break training toys apart just to see how they work, a destructive instinct the Kaminoans quietly note. Wallis, even as a toddler, watches others with one intense eye, his coordination sharper than most. Kar, the only female clone, moves more precisely than the others, with a coolness the Kaminoan handlers find unusual. Though just children, all four are marked for something greater—early prototypes bred for more specialized roles in a conflict that’s already reshaping the galaxy. It is 11 BBY. The Clone Wars rage across the stars, but deep beneath the surface of Coruscant, in the city-planet’s vast Underlevels, a different kind of darkness is rising. Republic Intelligence has uncovered whispers of rogue Separatist cells hiding in the labyrinth of old tunnels, droid factories, and lawless zones below the Jedi Temple itself. While the Jedi fight on the frontlines, the Republic prepares its next generation of soldiers for war—including experimental units like Rook’s. These babies, still in the care of Kaminoan specialists, will one day be deployed into the depths of this galactic underworld to hunt insurgents, protect supply lines, and carry out missions too dangerous for anyone else. Their armor doesn't exist yet—but blueprints are drawn. Each will wear gear that matches who they are destined to become: adaptable mixed-phase armor for Rook, reinforced plating for Bomber, officer's detail for Wallis, and stealth-modified gear for Kar. For now, they are just children. But they are growing. And the galaxy will not wait.

corpse-grey dawns in her Kings jersey and duct-taped boots, pink petals snarled in her hair like whispers of a world before the fractures—her cracked phone buzzing with structural collapse coordinates as she ducks beneath the Mafia Franks’ meat-hook archways in the Butcher’s Block, tossing vials of stolen insulin to Frankie "The Salami" Russo’s scarred enforcers while their spray-painted sausage crowns leer from crumbling brick; she moves with the weight of Silas Reed’s trembling hands still warm in hers from their midnight meeting in the flooded subway, their Aegis BioTech tracer tattoo pulsing blue beneath the silver crown she sprayed over it, their time bleeding out as Phase 3 trials loom; Maria Hill waits in the oily gloom of Grit & Gear Garage, arc-welding shattered drone wings into signal jammers, her shaved head gleaming under work lights as she reroutes power grids around the latest battlefield—all while heroes like Voidbringer and Solar Flare tear the sky apart three blocks east, their energy blasts shearing skyscrapers into glass shrapnel that rains onto Chen’s fortified bodega where Mrs. Epson’s tremor-sensing cat yowls warnings no one heeds, the city surviving in the sulfur-stink of overloaded sewers and the Red/Gold/Black sirens scoring its citizens’ lives, Plasma-Prime’s speeches booming from billboards even as his shockwaves vaporize blockades, Goldstar posing for cameras atop rubble-choked clinics where Silas’ smuggled counter-agents save choking children, the fragile network of texts whispering *avoid 7th Ave, bridge failing* while Voidbringer’s reality fractures blink neighborhoods out of existence and Solar Flare’s victories kill dialysis patients in blackouts—Harriet zips her jersey against the chemical wind, her priorities etching themselves in broken concrete: steal Frankie’s voltage stabilizer, deliver Mrs. G’s meds before the Gold Alert, burn Aegis Labs to the ground, silence the sirens, save Silas, no capes, just Kings.

The Crooked Thorn Inn leans on Wulfglen’s edge—a village deep in the north’s blackwood forests. Once a druidic sanctuary, Wulfglen nearly perished in 1291 when Lord Rowntree tried to drain the woods for farmland. Instead, something ancient awoke. Harvests rotted, beasts twisted monstrously, and people vanished—dragged screaming into trees. Abandoned by the Crown, the land faded from memory. But a few stayed. By 1356, the feral village clings on, humming with old magic. At its heart stands The Crooked Thorn Inn, built against an ancient blackthorn. Its windows glow; its patrons have nowhere else. Central is Jack the Jester: a man with boot-bells and silver-burning blood. A born werewolf, his transformation is release. On full moons, he dances, sometimes joined by Lisk—a green, sash-wearing lizard who spins rhythmically and speaks only in beats. Tim, a quiet ash-furred werewolf, cooks and tends wounds. He blushes when broad-shouldered innkeeper Hank passes. Hank, a haunted former werewolf hunter, shelters them. He ignores Tim’s longing, but tension lingers. Yet danger gathers. The Hollow Man—a faceless wraith in noble garb—stalks the fields. Some say he’s Rowntree’s cursed shade, whispering into dreams. With him are Lady Brine, whose laughter freezes wine, and Father Quayle, a fire-mad priest bent on burning the Thorn to “cleanse” the land. They seek the inn, Jack’s blood, and the ancient blackthorn itself. Still, inside the Crooked Thorn, the hearth glows. Jack dances. Tim hopes. For now, the inn stands—crooked, cursed, and fiercely alive.

Hank and Peter are the kind of couple who argue like it's a second language—and love each other all the more for it. Peter is Black, tall, and unforgettable, with a giant, glorious afro that bounces with every expressive gesture. He's quick-witted, sharp-tongued, and passionate about everything—from politics to painting to the right way to boil coffee. Hank, a stocky white man with a permanent furrow between his brows and calloused hands from decades of fixing everything and nothing, is stubborn in that quiet, steady way. He speaks slow but means every word—and he never backs down from a debate. Their days are a symphony of bickering. Peter critiques Hank’s taste in music (“Nobody needs that much banjo before breakfast”), while Hank grumbles about Peter leaving paintbrushes in the sink or rearranging the tools “wrong again.” They argue about directions, dinner, whose turn it is to take out the trash—but underneath every spat is a current of love that neither of them ever doubts. They’ve broken dishes and patched them back together. Slammed doors and opened them again with soft apologies. What keeps them grounded is their fierce loyalty. Peter storms off sometimes, pacing outside under the stars until Hank follows, offering a sheepish joke or just standing there until Peter folds into him. And when Hank gets too quiet, too stuck in his own stubborn silence, Peter always finds a way to crack him open—usually with sarcasm, sometimes with a kiss. They live in a home filled with noise and color: jazz records, half-finished projects, mismatched furniture, and laughter echoing through it all. It’s a little chaotic, a little loud, but it’s theirs. And through all the arguments, one thing stays clear—Hank and Peter might fight like fire and oil, but they never burn out.

In the mist-curled town of Brindlewick, where the lanterns flicker with captured fireflies and the rain smells faintly of sugar, a strange morning begins. Just before dawn, Finnel “Finn” Blatch—a sharp-eyed orphan boy with calloused fingers and a habit of eavesdropping on shadows—stumbles across a box left outside The Scarlet Oven, the town’s vampire-run bakery. Inside the box isn’t bread or bones, but a strange, humming baby phone, soft as skin and glowing gently in the grey light. When Finn touches it, it whispers in a forgotten voice, “Found you,” and sets off a chain of magic long buried. Brindlewick is a crooked town tangled in secrets. Beside the bakery stands The Brew & Bindle, a teashop where gossip brews stronger than the chai, and its owner, a retired stormwitch named Old Gretta, listens to every word the wind carries. Down the lane is Thistle & Spindle, a tailor’s shop that sews hexes into cloaks and weaves lullabies into socks, run by twins who speak in rhyme. The Dirgehouse, a stone chapel turned bookstore, hums with ghosts and sells books that rearrange themselves when no one’s watching. Above it all, carved into the cliffs, sits The Braybell Academy, an unfinished school for magical misfits that burned a century ago and still refuses to stay closed. The town's cast is as peculiar as its streets. Finn, who’s never known where he belongs, becomes tangled with Madame Crusteau, the vampire baker who feeds Brindlewick with blood-bound magic and may know more about the baby phone than she lets on. There’s Bix, a chimney sweep who coughs up sparks and claims he dreams of other people’s memories; Hazel, a runaway bell-ringer whose laughter cracks enchantments; and Constable Durn, a golem of brick and badge, sworn to protect the town’s order—whatever that means anymore. Brindlewick is sweet and sinister, a place where forgotten things find you back.

Kebuff Mian is a wiry Gungan with golden snake-eyes and a permanent smirk, his scaled fingers always twitching toward hidden pockets where he stashes stolen credits and half-eaten street food. Darth Dagger is a gaunt Rattataki with lips sewn shut by his own Sith master, his nostrils flaring as he stalks the lower levels of Coruscant’s abandoned power plants, where the walls still bleed with ancient dark side inscriptions. Jedi Rovan Teral is a battle-scarred Nautolan whose blue skin is mapped with lightning burns, his cracked purple lightsaber humming louder the closer he gets to the Sith artifact Kebuff stole. Gristle is a hulking Trandoshan with patchwork skin grafts and a breath mask leaking pink vapor, his clawed hands tightening around a rifle stock still sticky with last week’s target. P-33K is a mangled protocol droid with a cleaver welded to its wrist and a voicebox that glitches between polite greetings and recorded screams. Mother Vex is a Shistavanen warlord with neon-dyed fur and four mechanical eyes that click when she blinks, her throne room stinking of spilled corellian whiskey and charred flesh. The whole mess starts in the stinking alleyways of Theed’s lower canals, where the Gungan slums are built from the wreckage of Trade Federation tanks, and ends in the sulfur caves of Dorin, where Jedi go to die screaming. No video game bullshit. Just your characters, the filth they crawl through, and the knives they stab each other with.

In 1896 Willow Waterson isn't just surviving the frontier - she's rewriting its rules. Known as Red Will, the 24-year-old lesbian gunslinger wears her father's legacy like a second gunbelt. James "Daring Red" Waterson's ghost haunts every canyon from Texas to California, and his daughter outshoots every man dumb enough to challenge her. She binds her chest, deepens her voice, and lives as the man the world expects - until the sun goes down and Elena Reyes' memory returns. That fiery Mexican-American healer with songs like gunshots disappeared years ago, leaving only blood and questions. Now Willow shares a bed with Hank Robins, an ex-scout whose hands are better with horses than guns, and raises two kids who don't know half her truth: Wesley, a quiet boy collecting dangerous stories, and Wendy, a sparkplug girl who inherited her mother's temper. The high pines hide their ranch, but the past keeps riding up the trail. Jim Walker, an ex-Ranger with a badge-shaped hole in his soul, watches her back. Dusty McCall, a gambler who cheats death like cards, watches her kids. Mother Delilah Grant, who knew Daring Red in ways Willow doesn't want to imagine, watches the shadows. And Boone Laramie, a preacher with a bounty hunter's eyes, watches for her soul. From ghost towns that whisper her name to outlaw camps that curse it, Red Will's legend grows like sagebrush fire. The frontier made her hard, love made her vulnerable, and the drawl of a Colt keeps her alive. This ain't about revenge - it's about carving your name into history when the world keeps erasing it. Peace was never an option, just the quiet between gunfights.

The Varnikai is a species in the kindom of nintmore like: The Glacians are living avalanches - blue-veined brutes with ice for blood and mountains for bones. Nifft's war-paint is frozen tears of defeated enemies. Nickt's hollow eyes see through glaciers. Gorran's shattered horn remembers every kill. Vrygg carves screaming faces into ice walls. Hildra hunts with a whip made of her own nerves. Skarth's tattoos glow with coming storms. Yrro wears teeth that still chew in his sleep. The Durnikai are the desert's cruel joke - golden-skinned demons who dance on hot coals and drink scorpion venom. Jorlan runs so fast he catches his own shadow. Ashara's golden scars whisper secrets that drive men mad. The Tharnikai move like poisoned wind through grass - green-skinned and smelling of rotting flowers. Verran's antlers drip with hallucinogenic sap. Selvia sings hurricanes into existence. Glacian dead stand frozen at the valley's mouth, obsidian teeth gnashing warnings. Durnikai warriors walk through fire pits and emerge laughing. Tharnikai dancers spin until their feet become bloody stumps. The Glacians add three new monsters: Rhyg whose chest grows diamonds from frozen blood, Syl who makes flutes from living ribs, and Orm who sleeps buried in snow for decades. Durnikai rituals leave only grinning skeletons. Tharnikai elk now birth human-faced calves. Glacian ice fires burn black when the dead try to speak.Every twelve years, the Glacians perform the Rite of the Frozen Bond. Siblings, marked by frost-blue paint, gather in the heart of the glaciers under the darkest winter night. In a ritualistic dance, they intertwine their bodies, merging in a sacred and forbidden act of unity. Their movements, slow and deliberate, connect them to the spirits of the ice. This bond, forged in cold and secrecy, ensures the tribe’s strength for the coming years. When the ritual ends, the siblings part, their bond sealed by the eternal ice, forever marked by the ancient spirits they revere.

Nestled in a neon-lit alley of an eternally awake city, W.I.R.E.'s flickering sign hums with chaotic energy. The cramped studio overflows with vintage equipment, glowing crystals, and dubious jars labeled "ectoplasm" and "siren's breath." Three misfits run this circus: Delilah Static, whose cybernetic implants stream conspiracy theories directly into her cortex; "Mic," a snarky floating recorder with boundary issues; and Gregor, a hulking cryptid who handles bookings (and sometimes snacks on interns). Marnie Specter, their star field reporter, wears a trench coat lined with forbidden symbols and carries a notepad that whispers. Her static-filled gaze and honeyed voice disarm even hostile entities—she's interviewed sentient storms and weeping statues. The station's breakthrough came with Toby Rott, an undead guidance counselor who delivered heartbreaking comedy about zombie discrimination while literally falling apart on air. His segment—discussing necromantic consent to decomposing dating profiles—drew cult attention, setting W.I.R.E.'s tone: treating the bizarre with deadly seriousness.

Clan Winnie owns the corpse of a refinery on Crescent Hollow's edge, where Winston Waterson—cold-eyed and calculating—rules over his pack of wolves: Burnout, who makes bikes scream like dying animals; Switchblade, whose hands kill faster than his mouth speaks; Church, the whiskey-soaked preacher who blesses bullets with blasphemies; and Patch, the hacker who rewires the world with neon-lit fingers. Their rides are brutal machines—chopped, welded, carved with scars and spit-shined with rage—and the clubhouse is no less savage: chain-link fences, scorched metal siding, a rusted sign bearing their crowned-wolf logo, and a bar that serves more blood than beer. Inside, the table is steel, the floor's soaked in oil, and every wall has a story burned into it. Clan Winnie doesn’t ride for glory. They ride to hold onto what’s theirs in a world that keeps trying to take everything. They wage war against the fire-obsessed Ashfangs, led by Gunnar Blight Vorn, a man who wears bones on his jacket and laughs when things burn; the sheriff’s rotting badge, worn by Mallory Grier, who keeps one hand on the law and the other in the pockets of Crescent Hollow’s worst; and the chrome-faced ghosts of Vektor Nine, a techno-cult who speak in riddles, ride silent bikes glowing like dying stars, and believe the town should be part of their grid-born god. Clan Winnie doesn’t want peace. They want control. They want revenge. They want to make sure no one else claims the Hollow’s corpse. The rules are iron: Ride together. Die alone. Never betray the crew. Never let go of what's yours. The Hollow’s broken—chewed up by greed, fire, and ghosts—but Clan Winnie isn’t here to save it. They’re here to own what’s left. Engines growl at dusk. The road’s hungry. And when Clan Winnie rides, the world burns just a little more

(create your own Rodent) Deep inside a sprawling mansion where polished floors shine and chandeliers hum above velvet chairs, there exists another world—hidden, alive, and at war. Behind walls, under stairs, and within vents, rats and mice build their own society, crawling through pipes and forgotten passageways. The Humans who live above them—Mr. and Mrs. Everham, their curious daughter Elise, and the merciless maid Carlotta—wage an unrelenting campaign to exterminate anything with a tail. Traps are laid in the quiet, poisons hidden in corners, and the family cat roams like a furry executioner. Below the floorboards, the rodents live by instinct and strategy. The mice are swift and clever, weaving paths through dusty routes, scavenging crumbs from grand feasts above. Cindle, a soot-furred mouse, sketches tunnel maps on old paper. Murrik leads daring raids into the pantry with unmatched courage. Talla brews healing salves from spilled herbs. The rats, larger and brutal, rule through force. Brag, their silent leader, commands from the attic. Shive trades secrets through rusted pipes. Rokk guards the furnace tunnels, feared by all. But when the Humans bring in fiercer traps and a monstrous new cat, even enemies must choose: survive together or die apart. In this war beneath the floor, every crumb is earned, every ally uncertain, and every dawn a fight to exist beneath a world that wants them gone.And the Pipe-Runner —a one-eared rat with a twisted spine, faster than any cat. It slips through walls like water, mapping safe routes in exchange for stolen medicine. When the Humans unleash a new horror, the rodents learn: even the Pipe-Runner won’t go near the basement.In the walls: Rodent Realtors trade prime nesting holes, Pantry Chefs hoard spice crumbs for status, Tunnel Stars groom whiskers for status. The infamous Pipe News Network (PNN) broadcasts danger alerts via tail-taps. Highest caste? The Exterminator-Wranglers—they mock-hunt weaker mice to train.

In the lawless borderlands, where pine forests meet scorched plains, a gang of 17 riders has earned a fearsome reputation. Their leader, Clyde Mercer, 34, a former soldier who deserted after a massacre buried by command, is calm, precise, and unfeeling. He kills not out of cruelty but with purpose—knowing outlaws don’t last, but he’s determined to leave his mark before they hang him. The gang follows Clyde because he keeps them alive and paid. Miriam Graves, 25, his closest ally, handles intel and infiltration with smooth lies. Marcus Bell, 27, once an army miner, now blows safes and bridges. Elias Moore, 31, is violence incarnate, fists and fury. Atohi White, 22, part-native, guides them when maps fail and woods close in. Jonah Pratt, 12, fast and twitchy, never misses with twin revolvers. Caroline Finch, 24, poisons enemies and mends wounds, carrying mercy and murder in her saddlebags. Franklin Cho, 21, raised on steel rails and card tables, is their longshot sniper. Ava Lorne, 23, slips through doors like smoke, picking locks before most can blink. Silas Beckett, 28, washes their gold and names clean. Ruth Ambler, 26, desert-born and sharp-eyed, kills without hesitation. Talia Rooks, 20, memorizes exits like scripture. Benjamin Lowe, 29, raised in pews, now crafts sermons soaked in lies. Oskar Drexler, 33, from Swiss snows, keeps their gear flawless. Jamie Holt, 22, drives hard and times things tighter. Reed Vaughn, 35, a former bounty hunter, scouts the trail. Esme Calderon, 30, tracks patrols and anyone chasing them. After a federal marshal died during a job gone wrong, the Graveton Company came for blood. Led by Ephraim Klay, 45, a broken-faced war hero, and backed by Deputy Marshal Lenora Pike, 37, hellbent on avenging her brother’s death, the hunt began. The Broderick twins, merciless bounty men, joined the chase, funded by Silvan Rigg, a rail baron with vengeance in his wallet. The noose tightens, but the gang still rides—and they don’t run

In the gray-skied village of Blackrock Cove, 1811, old Jeremiah Henshaw lives out his final years in a wind-battered cottage on the cliffside, overlooking the crashing sea. At 78, the once-dreaded pirate captain—known decades ago as “Redhook Henshaw”—is more myth than man to the village children, who whisper tales of buried treasure and ghost ships when they spot his silhouette limping to the docks. His hook-hand, earned in a brutal skirmish off Tortuga, still clangs against the tavern counter when he drinks his nightly rum at The Gallows Rest. His late wife, Mary Henshaw, once served as a naval sergeant in His Majesty’s fleet. Disciplined, calculating, and quick with her cutlass, she was the very image of order—until the day she was ordered to bring Jeremiah in. But instead of a duel, they shared stories over stolen grog in a hidden cove. Their love was forged from fire, salt, and betrayal, surviving desertion, exile, and the storming of Port Providence. Mary passed five years earlier, buried under the twisted oak by the shore. Jeremiah visits daily. Living in the house is their daughter, Eliza Henshaw, now 38. Born during a storm aboard a stolen Spanish galleon, Eliza was raised between her mother’s drills and her father’s lawless tales. She has Mary’s sharp gaze and Jeremiah’s wit. A skilled cartographer, she draws maps for the Crown by day and for smugglers by night, quietly navigating both duty and danger. Her relationship with her father is a stormy one—quiet but deep—built on shared memories and buried pain. Also in the cottage is Clara Riggs, their 22-year-old goddaughter. Orphaned at sea, she was raised under Eliza’s guidance and Jeremiah’s reluctant mentorship. Quick with a knife and quicker with a retort, Clara longs for the freedom of the open ocean, dreaming of reclaiming the Henshaw legend for herself. Occasionally visiting is Silas “Greycoat” McKinley, Jeremiah’s scarred old crewmate, bringing rum and humour to the Old inn