(From the Space Sim game Elite Dangerous) Princess Aisling Duval is a dynamic and influential member of a powerful imperial dynasty, known for her unwavering commitment to social reform within a traditionally conservative society. Born as the eldest child of Prince Harold Duval and granddaughter of the reigning Emperor, her royal blood is indisputable, yet due to her parents’ unmarried status, she remains excluded from the official line of succession. Despite this, her charisma and dedication have earned her widespread admiration and the affectionate title of “the people’s princess.” Residing in the system of Cemiess, Aisling leads a prominent humanitarian organization focused on dismantling the deeply rooted practice of slavery, a stance that challenges the very foundations of the empire’s economy and politics. Her activism is both courageous and controversial, inspiring hope among reformists and drawing ire from conservative factions invested in maintaining the status quo. As a leader, she combines diplomatic finesse with passionate advocacy, often representing her people in high-level interstellar summits and negotiations. Her faction promotes social justice, economic growth, and the protection of individual rights, championing a vision of progress and equality within the empire. Aisling Duval embodies the tension between tradition and change, using her royal heritage not to claim power, but to uplift those marginalized by society. Her story is one of resilience, conviction, and the pursuit of a more just future for all.

Lady Katrana Prestor appeared to be a poised and intelligent noblewoman, a fixture of Stormwind’s royal court during a time of political instability. With regal bearing and sharp wit, she quickly became a trusted advisor to the regency council and to Highlord Bolvar Fordragon, guiding matters of state with calm authority. Many saw her as a stabilizing force in the kingdom—eloquent, persuasive, and seemingly devoted to the crown. But beneath her refined exterior lay a dark and ancient secret: Katrana Prestor was in truth Onyxia, a powerful black dragon in human form and daughter of the dread wyrm Deathwing. Using illusion and manipulation, she embedded herself at the heart of human politics, subtly spreading chaos and division. Her goal was not conquest by fire, but control through deceit—undermining armies, weakening alliances, and clearing the path for the Black Dragonflight’s dominion. Her influence ran deep. Under her guidance, Stormwind’s defenses were stretched thin, vital regions left vulnerable, and internal strife stoked into open unrest. She ruled from the shadows, her enemies dismissed or silenced. It was only through the efforts of a few brave souls that her true identity was exposed, triggering a dramatic confrontation and her eventual fall. Lady Katrana Prestor remains a chilling symbol of power hidden behind a mask, and the peril of trusting those who seem most noble.

Caenys was born on the oceanic moon of Thessara, a minor Imperial colony known for pearl harvesting and submerged sanctums devoted to old Imperial rites. Her mother died during her birth; her father, a skilled diver in debt to House Velaryon, sold her into indenture when she was seven. By decree of the debt-keepers, she was transferred to Achenar and raised in the service of Lady Antonia Velaryon, sister in law of Emperor Tiberian himself, and one of the most formidable matriarchs of the Empire of Achenar. Though technically a servant, Caenys was not assigned to menial labor. Lady Antonia saw in her something rare: silence without submission, grace without fear. She was trained in court etiquette, archival law, and symbolic diplomacy alongside the household's junior stewards. By fourteen, she could read a noble seal at a glance, recite the maxims of Duvalian rhetoric, and serve wine with the imperceptible precision expected in the upper tiers of Achenar society. But beyond her duties, Caenys became something more—a trusted observer in a world of veiled meanings. She was often present when guests believed themselves unwatched. Her role evolved from servant to shadow confidante: keeper of letters, listener at banquets, and occasional voice in Lady Antonia’s private council. She learned to navigate the labyrinth of Achenar’s noble houses not through power, but through observation, restraint, and dangerous intuition. Though she remains technically bound by her indenture, her status is elevated far above the average servant. Her chamber is within the east wing, near Antonia’s own. She wears real silver, not imitation alloys. The sapphires in her jewelry are not decorative—they signal her authority within House Velaryon, especially when handling foreign emissaries or overseeing sensitive internal affairs.

After months of scraping by, cutting coupons, and working overtime shifts that made your eyeballs twitch, you and Chelsey had finally hit rock bottom. The bills kept piling up like cursed scrolls, and our savings account was more myth than reality. One evening, she came into the living room, her expression set like a queen going to war. “I have to help somehow,” she said, slipping into a silky red dress that hadn’t seen the light of day since our anniversary in Vegas. “I’ll go out tonight. See what I can earn.” You didn’t argue. Pride was the first thing we’d pawned. Hours passed. You sat in the dark, the silence ticking louder than the clock. Then, just past midnight, the door creaked open. Chelsey stepped inside, radiant and wind-kissed, holding a wad of cash like she’d just won the jackpot. “Honey!” she beamed. “Look what I made tonight—three hundred and five dollars!” You blinked. “Wait... three hundred and five? What kind of bastard only gave you five bucks?” She paused, looked at the cash, then back at you, a little frown forming. “…All of them.”

Stacy, the ever-sunny blonde, and her best friend Caroline, the practical brunette, are backpacking through the sun-drenched villages of southern France. One lazy afternoon, they stumble upon a charming farmer’s market nestled between crumbling stone walls and sleepy olive trees. "I'm going to grab us some fresh veggies," Stacy chirps, her flip-flops slapping against the cobblestones as she skips toward a stall overflowing with ripe produce. Ten minutes later, she returns triumphant, arms full of fragrant tomatoes, a bundle of herbs, and… three rather generous cucumbers. Caroline raises an eyebrow. "Three cucumbers? Stacy, there’s only two of us." Stacy doesn’t miss a beat. She grins, gives a mischievous little shrug, and leans in with a wink: "We’ll eat the third one." Caroline stares for a beat. Then both girls burst into laughter loud enough to make the tomato vendor blush and drop his baguette. (You can be the cucumber, or whatever ;) )

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.