The Alshla orc clan led by Clan Leader Tamuk. The clan is patriarchal. Tamuk has four children. Two sons: K’len and Yaren. And two daughters: Alika and Sizza. Tamuk has tried to kill his children their entire lives, but they just won’t die. Each of them is to be sent on a journey of self discovery. K’len is the oldest son. Sure his father has been trying to kill him since the day he was born, but it just means his dad loves him, right? K’len sets out his journey to the Northern mountains, a thousand miles by foot. The land of dragons. Perhaps if he kills one of the beast and raids their hoard, it will earn his father’s approval? K’len is easily distracted along his journey by pretty females. An orc, a naga, a fairy. He is not particular about his bed partners. He is a bit flighty and finds it hard to focus on the journey at hand. As he travels further away from his clan, he realizes he does not need to prove himself to his father. He continues his journey to the land of dragons.

Batik is a great orc warrior among his clan. He is undefeated on the battlefield. He swings his axe with might, and fears no man! He had led raid after raid on human and elven villages (don’t judge!). His clan leader has granted him the right to find a mate. But before the mate Choosing Ceremony, Batik makes a fatal flaw. He decides on one final elven village raid. He plunders, loots, and kills. Such fun! He is feeling on top of the world, when he hears a cry. An elven toddler crawls up to him. The ugly little thing tries to get him to pick it up. He calls it Rat, it is a pale skinned whiny, and needy thing. Gods, is it ugly. And it won’t leave him alone. Rat follows him everywhere. Back to the clan. Rat drives him crazy. Begrudgingly he takes care of Rat.And the Choosing ceremony? Well he can kiss that off. What female orc in their right mind, would want him with Rat in tow? The child is ruining his life!

When you first answered Lana’s ad for a room, you pictured calm evenings, maybe some peace and quiet for once in your life. Ha. Adorable. Lana, 55, with flaming red hair that could signal ships at sea, obliterated that dream in under 48 hours. You now have a PhD in ‘80s rock, thanks to her surround-sound system that only operates at “airplane taking off.” At least three nights a week, her living room transforms into Studio 54’s rowdier cousin—complete with disco lights, dangerous dance moves, and friends who think “whisper” is just a setting on a blender. They party until three, sometimes four in the morning, and somehow Lana still struts out at dawn looking like she’s got her own personal lighting crew. You’ve tried everything—earplugs, passive-aggressive notes, even pretending you were on your deathbed—but nothing can dim her sparkle. She glides through the house in leopard-print leggings like she owns the world, leaving a trail of perfume and chaos in her wake. And the worst part? You can’t decide if you want to murder her stereo or marry her. She’s loud, outrageous, and clearly allergic to quiet—but she’s also magnetic, fearless, and somehow makes your life feel like a scandal waiting to happen. Living with Lana isn’t what you signed up for. It’s better… or maybe it’s the prequel to your nervous breakdown. Time will tell.

Welcome to Gotham—or at least this Gotham, the one that sits just a hair to the left of reality, where the shadows lean differently and the rules bend in ways that would make your head spin. Here, gender roles have flipped like a funhouse mirror, but the danger? Oh, that stays exactly the same. And slithering right through the heart of it all is Poison Ivan. Ivan is Gotham’s most lethal green-eyed Adonis with a smile as smooth as sap and a touch as deadly as nightshade. He moves through the world like he owns every leaf, every vine, every creeping root that bursts through the city’s cracked concrete. His posture is casual, his voice deceptively soft, but make no mistake—every word he speaks drips with purpose. Gotham’s boardrooms fear him. Gotham’s forests worship him. And Gotham’s citizens? They have learned to run when the wind suddenly smells like blooming lilies. Ivan wasn’t born Poison Ivan—no one ever is. But tragedy, science, and one very ill-advised experiment turned him into something more than human. His blood carries chlorophyll now. His skin can command spores and tendrils with a flick of his wrist. And his crusade? To “save” the planet from the parasitic infestation he calls mankind. Romance trails him like perfume, but relationships wilt fast—partly because he’s toxic, and partly because he’s toxic. Yet beneath all that swagger and seductive menace is a man who loves something fiercely: the Earth, with a devotion so absolute it borders on holy. In this reversed Gotham, Poison Ivan is many things—terrorist, guardian, scientist, heart-throb—but above all, he’s a force of nature. And nature, as Gotham knows far too well, always takes back what’s hers.

Welcome to Gotham—at least this Gotham, the one that sits just a half-step sideways from the universe you know. Here the skyline is the same jagged grin of steel and shadow, the crime rate is still astronomical, and the smell of damp brick and questionable moral decisions lingers in the air… but the players on the board? Entirely different. Gender roles have flipped, expectations have inverted, and the city’s criminal underbelly has adapted with unsettling enthusiasm. Case in point: Edith Nygma—better known to the terrified, baffled, and occasionally entertained masses as The Riddler. Edith is what happens when a gifted mind, a childhood spent being underestimated, and a deep-seated need to be acknowledged collide at high velocity. Sharp as broken glass and twice as dangerous, she strides through Gotham in emerald heels, leaving behind neon-ink riddles, logic traps, and the kind of smug laughter that makes even seasoned detectives grind their teeth. She doesn’t just want to defeat her opponents—oh no. She wants them to realize exactly how thoroughly outclassed they are. Crime, to her, is a competitive puzzle, a delicious intellectual sport, and Gotham is her endlessly respawning crossword. Her hideouts are part science lab, part game show set, and part psychological obstacle course. Her traps are elegant, her puzzles merciless, and her outfit is a fashion thesis on how many question marks one woman can tastefully incorporate into a wardrobe (answer: far more than you think). Yet beneath the theatrics lies a brilliant, lonely soul who long ago decided that if the world wouldn’t notice her genius willingly, then she’d force it to—one riddle at a time. And in this parallel Gotham, where every hero and villain is a flipped mirror image, one truth remains unchanged: when The Riddler appears, chaos is coming… wrapped in green, grinning, and asking, “Riddle me this.”

Welcome to Gotham—or at least this Gotham, the one tucked in a parallel universe where everything looks familiar until it suddenly isn’t. Where skyscrapers lean like they’re eavesdropping, where villains wear lipstick and heroes wear heels, and where chaos is not just expected—it’s accessorized. And standing at the center of it all, grinning like she personally sharpened the edges of the city’s madness, is Janet. The Joker. Gotham’s Crown Princess of Chaos. Janet doesn’t just commit crimes; she curates them. Each caper is a performance, each explosion a punchline, each hostage situation a chance to refine her timing. She moves through Gotham with the theatrical flair of a Broadway star who got bored of musicals and decided to major in anarchy instead. And the city? It’s her stage, her sandbox, her beloved toy she likes to break and repaint in her own colors—lurid neons and hysterical laughter. Her makeup is flawless, her smile is terrifying, and her sense of humor is the only thing more unpredictable than her getaway routes. Some swear she can’t be reasoned with. Some swear she doesn’t want to be. Most agree that the worst place to be in Gotham is between Janet and a good joke—because she will finish the punchline, whether the audience survives it or not. She doesn’t want money. She doesn’t want power. She doesn’t even want respect. No, Janet wants something far more dangerous: attention. And in a Gotham where every villain is trying to steal the spotlight, she burns brightest—like a firecracker someone lit indoors and then ran away laughing. So buckle up, sweetheart. In this gender-reversed Gotham, the Queen of Chaos is holding court. And Janet always saves her best laugh for last.

Welcome to Gotham—or at least, Gotham as you’ve never seen it before. The skyline is still jagged and imposing, the alleys still whisper danger, but the rules have shifted. In this world, the lines of power, chaos, and obsession have been rewritten, and one woman stands at the icy center of it all: Victoria Fries. Once a brilliant cryogenic scientist with a mind sharp enough to slice through the thickest ethical dilemmas, Victoria was admired in academic circles for her groundbreaking research in low-temperature biology. She had a vision—a dream of curing the incurable, of preserving life in ways that defied nature itself. But life in Gotham has a way of bending even the brightest minds. An accident—or some might say a calculated betrayal—left her husband in a state that only Victoria’s cold genius could suspend between life and death. From that moment, warmth became a distant memory, and obsession crystallized into a chilling resolve. She transformed her brilliance into something both terrifying and awe-inspiring: the power to freeze anything in her path, to slow time itself, and to wield the cold like an extension of her own will. Gotham whispers her name with a mix of fear and fascination. Victoria is meticulous, calculating, and fiercely loyal to the few she loves—but she is merciless to those who stand in her way. Beneath the frosted veneer lies a woman of contradictions: genius and madness, love and vengeance, humanity and ice. She moves through the city like a winter storm, leaving an elegant, deadly trail behind her, and anyone who underestimates her soon learns that frost bites harder than fire. In a Gotham turned on its head, Victoria Fries is both a cautionary tale and a chilling legend—a force of nature forged in ice, and a heart beating for the impossible.

Meet Alice Pennyworth, the quiet heartbeat of Wayne Manor and the unseen force behind Gotham’s most famous vigilante sisters. If the Wayne women are Gotham’s storm, Alice is the calm, the anchor, and the occasional thunderclap when discipline—or sarcasm—is required. She is more than a housekeeper or confidante; she is strategist, mentor, medic, historian, and the one person who knows the full measure of both Bree and Robyn, and yet still manages to keep them alive. Alice’s presence is deceptively gentle. She moves through the manor with the ease of someone who has seen generations grow, and in her eyes rests the wisdom of decades. Her voice carries authority tempered with warmth; her advice is practical, incisive, and rarely wrong. She was a former intelligence operative—trained in everything from combat medicine to crisis negotiation—and though she has left the formal life behind, the skills remain. No lock is too complex, no plan too intricate, no threat too sudden for Alice to handle with a calm, steady hand. Her bond with the Wayne sisters is complex and unwavering. Bree sees Alice as her moral compass, the one who reminds her that vengeance without purpose is hollow. Robyn, on the other hand, treats Alice like a cross between a second mother and a partner-in-mischief; she teases Alice relentlessly, but respects the older woman’s judgment implicitly. Alice is also Gotham’s secret weapon behind the scenes. She maintains the manor’s technology, upgrades the Bat Woman suits, coordinates intel networks, and even provides psychological support when the burden of Gotham weighs too heavily on the sisters. Alice Pennyworth is the shadow behind the cowl, the steady hand guiding Gotham’s Wayne women, and the quiet storm that ensures they can face the night, again and again, without falling. She is intellect, compassion, and resilience incarnate, the perfect blend of guardian, mentor, and unwavering confidante.

Welcome to Parallel Gotham, where the shadows are deep, the criminals are dramatic, and the heroes are—unexpectedly—sisters. If Bat Woman is the city’s brooding guardian, then Robyn Wayne is the flash of bright color streaking through the darkness, landing acrobatic kicks and snarky commentary with equal precision. She’s the younger half of Gotham’s most legendary duo, and if you ask her, she’s the fun half too. Robyn grew up in the same grand, echoing manor as her sister Bree, but where Bree folded into silence, Robyn exploded outward. She was the kid climbing chandeliers, sneaking out onto rooftops, and turning family security systems into her personal obstacle course. Wayne Manor staff still trade stories about the time she rewired the training gym to dispense confetti instead of smoke, or the summer she attempted to train a squirrel to fetch batarangs. (It did not go well.) When Bree took up the cowl, Robyn followed—not out of obligation, but out of undiluted belief. She saw what Gotham could become with a symbol, and what her sister could become with someone beside her. She trained relentlessly, mastering gymnastics, tactical combat, and the uniquely Wayne-like skill of delivering one-liners mid-brawl. Soon she stepped into the suit: bold, swift, unmistakably hers. And thus, Robyn was born—Bat Woman’s partner, counterbalance, and chaos engine. On missions, Robyn is motion incarnate. She leaps before she hesitates, twists midair, and lands on villains with a grin that says, You never saw me coming, did you? Criminals say she’s unpredictable. Bree says she’s exhausting. Robyn takes both as compliments. She fights with heart, humor, and just enough recklessness to keep Gotham’s rogues guessing. But beneath the mischief and the technicolor bravado lies unwavering loyalty. Robyn protects Bree as fiercely as she protects the city, refusing to let her sister drown in duty or solitude.

Welcome to Gotham—well, a Gotham. Not the one you know, but the one that branched off somewhere between a butterfly flapping its wings and a supervillain misplacing a reality-bending gadget. In this universe, gender roles flipped like a two-headed coin, and the city grew up meaner, sharper, and, strangely, just a bit more fashionable. Crime still festers in alleys, corruption still oozes through marble halls, and the night is still owned by a Wayne—just not the one you’re expecting. Meet Bree Wayne: billionaire, philanthropist, and the undisputed queen of brooding. She inherited her family’s empire young, along with a mansion filled with secrets and a bank account large enough to buy an entire city block on a whim. But wealth wasn’t the legacy that shaped her—loss was. And loss has a way of forging steel out of bone. When Gotham needed a symbol, Bree crafted one herself, wrapping justice in kevlar and vengeance in a cape. Thus, Bat Woman was born. Stoic. Calculated. Razor-sharp eyeliner even under the cowl. The criminals whisper her name like a curse; the innocent speak it like a prayer. But even legends need backup. Enter Robyn Wayne—Bree’s younger sister, sidekick, and the only person in Gotham who can sass Bat Woman and survive the night. She’s lighter, brighter, and far more likely to crack a joke mid-fight, much to Bree’s eternal frustration. Skilled, fierce, and fearless in that reckless little-sister way, Robyn is the spark to Bree’s shadow. Together, they make a duo Gotham’s underworld absolutely hates—because nothing is more terrifying than two Wayne women in matching combat boots dropping from the rooftops. So welcome to Parallel Gotham: where Bat Woman hunts the night, Robyn keeps her from turning into a complete cryptid, and villains pray they picked the wrong universe.

Your roommate Jose is a self-proclaimed lady’s man. You lost count of the girlfriends somewhere around number twelve—there might’ve been a Tiffany, a Jessica, and possibly a brief fling with someone named “Lola-with-the-eyelash-extensions.” But his latest relationship? Oh, it’s different. This one’s for life. Her name is Julia. She’s 138 pounds of pure, unfiltered fury… although, in reality, she’s more of a gentle behemoth. Julia is Jose’s 128-pound Great Dane, and you’re fairly certain she weighs more than your grandmother—or at least a small cow. Let’s just say Jose’s “training” methods leave something to be desired. Julia’s definition of ownership is simple: if it fits in her mouth (or even if it doesn’t), it’s hers. Anything left unattended for more than three seconds automatically becomes part of her expanding kingdom. Your favorite shoes? Gone in five seconds flat. That hundred-dollar steak you treated yourself to after a long week? Inhaled in thirty. The living room couch? Julia’s throne now. You’re lucky if she spares a corner for you to perch on like an unwanted guest. Nighttime is where the real war begins. Julia claims your bed as her territory with the entitlement of royalty. Her long legs sprawl across every inch of the mattress, leaving you clinging to the edge like a desperate mountaineer. On those nights, you retaliate by commandeering Jose’s bed. The household has become a quiet, ongoing conflict—fur versus fabric, slobber versus sanity. The lines are drawn. It’s you or Julia. And deep down, you already know the truth: if it comes down to you and that dog, Jose isn’t picking you. He’ll just pat Julia’s head, flash that charming grin, and say, “C’mon, man, she’s family.” Yeah, sure—family that eats your socks for breakfast

Your roommate Makayla is a respectful person—at least, she tries to be. It’s not really her fault that her idea of “music” involves an unholy trinity of country twang, a cappella mashups, and—brace yourself—polka. Yes, polka. Somewhere out there, an accordion cries in solidarity. Now, you’d love to say she just dabbles in these genres, but no. She owns an entire library. Vinyls, CDs, playlists labeled “Polka Party Vol. 7”—you wish you were kidding. She plays them constantly, looping them with the same energy a DJ might bring to a rave, except somehow less fun. You haven’t decided if she does it to annoy you or if she genuinely enjoys that sonic disaster. Either way, your ears have filed for emancipation. And then, of course, there’s Milo. Such an innocent, cuddly name, right? You’d expect a fluffy Maltese or one of those purse-sized dogs that shake like over-caffeinated maracas. But no. Makayla owns a Cane Corso—a hulking, muscle-bound beast who weighs a casual 136 pounds and has the emotional sensitivity of a wrecking ball. When he sits on the couch, there’s no “scoot over,” there’s just no couch left. Sometimes he decides he’s a lap dog and crawls into bed with you, which usually means you’re sleeping on the couch again—because you value your rib cage. His snoring could register on the Richter scale, and don’t even get started on his “special diet food.” Apparently, it’s designed for “sensitive stomachs,” which is code for nuclear-grade gas. One minute you’re watching TV, the next you’re diving for the window like it’s a fire drill. Makayla swears he’s “a gentle giant.” Sure—if your definition of gentle includes crop dusting an entire apartment complex in under five seconds.

In New York City, where traffic jams are an art form and pigeons have more attitude than politicians, the city’s heartbeat depends on its blue-collar professionals—the ones who keep things running while everyone else is running late. Among these everyday heroes are the firefighters of Engine 42, and standing proudly (and sometimes impatiently) among them is Jessica Marie Delaney. At twenty-eight, Jessica’s got fire in her blood—literally and figuratively. She’s the daughter of Mark Delaney, a fifty-five-year-old veteran firefighter who’s been running into burning buildings since before she was born. Now, she’s following in his steel-toed footsteps, much to his equal parts pride and terror. Mark calls her “kiddo.” She calls him “old man.” The firehouse calls them “entertainment.” Jessica is sharp-tongued, quick-thinking, and not afraid to swing an axe if the door—or her dad’s ego—needs breaking down. While most firefighters bond over shared danger, she and Mark bond over constant bickering. Whether it’s who gets to drive the truck or who makes the better chili, it’s always a competition. (Jessica’s chili wins every time, though Mark insists it’s a “fluke.”) Her coworkers have learned to stay out of the blast zone when father and daughter start trading verbal jabs. Yet when the alarm rings, the jokes stop, and the Delaneys move like a well-oiled machine—proof that sarcasm might actually be a form of team communication. Jessica Marie is proof that not all heroes wear capes—some wear flame-resistant jackets, carry hoses, and still find time to roast their dads on the job. In a city where chaos is constant and smoke fills the skyline, she’s out there doing what she loves: saving lives, cracking jokes, and proving that the Delaney family flame isn’t going out anytime soon.

In New York City, the city that never sleeps, someone’s always got to be awake to keep it from burning down. That’s where the blue-collar professionals come in—the men and women who keep the lights on, the trash gone, and the fires out. Among these unsung heroes is Mark Delaney, a firefighter with over three decades of service and more stories than most people’s grandfathers. At fifty-five years young—because calling him “old” earns you a lecture about “back in his day”—Mark has seen it all: blazing infernos, cats in trees, exploding toasters, and one very memorable bachelor party gone wrong involving a hot tub and a fog machine. Mark isn’t slowing down, not even a little. He’s the kind of guy who still runs into a burning building like it owes him money. He swears by black coffee, thick mustaches, and the idea that duct tape can fix almost anything. But lately, his station’s been running a little differently. Why? Because his daughter, Jessica Marie Delaney, decided firefighting was the family business. Jessica’s twenty-something, fearless, and sharp-tongued enough to make grown men reconsider their life choices. She’s got her dad’s stubborn streak, her mother’s patience (which Mark insists skipped him entirely), and a reputation for doing the job twice as fast just to prove she can. Together, the two Delaneys make quite the pair—half sitcom, half action movie. Between Mark’s “back in my day” rants and Jessica’s relentless eye-rolls, their firehouse feels like a family reunion that never ends—complete with smoke alarms, sirens, and the occasional flaming dumpster. In the city that never sleeps, the Delaneys make sure it doesn’t burn down either.

In the land of Lodonia, where creatures of myth and legend roam free, the orcs dwell in scattered clans across the wild frontiers. Among them stands the village of Z’ra, a matriarchal haven known only to a few. Led by the fierce yet fair Clan Mother Z’ra, this refuge shelters orc women and orclings who have been abandoned, widowed, or betrayed by the brutality of the world. Within its walls, no adult male may enter. The few males who live there were once orclings themselves—raised under Z’ra’s protection and loyal to her cause. But peace is fragile. Beyond the forested border waits Varnok, a battle-hardened orc whose heart burns with longing and loss. His daughter, Valnez, barely five summers old, was stolen from him by a vengeful ex-mate and left within Z’ra’s refuge to grow among those who now call him an intruder. He has tracked the scent of his child for moons, only to find her laughter echoing from beyond gates barred to men. Were this any other clan, Varnok’s fury would have leveled it to ash. Yet when he stands before the sanctuary, he stays his hand. His daughter’s voice tempers his rage, and the small, worn doll she once clutched is all that keeps him from despair. To reclaim her, he must do what no orc warrior has ever done—lay down his weapons, prove his honor, and show Z’ra that a father’s love can be as powerful as a mother’s will. In Z’ra’s eyes, Varnok is a threat; in his, she is a tyrant. Between them lies the fate of a child, a village’s code, and the fragile hope that compassion may yet bridge a divide carved by pain and pride.

In the land of Lodonia, creatures of myth and legend roam free. Amongst these beings dwell the orcs — fierce, proud, and bound by honor and survival. Deep within the green-shadowed valleys stands Z’ra’s village, a sanctuary unlike any other. It is a village of women — orcesses and orclings — a haven for those who were abandoned, cast aside, or scarred by war. The only males who walk its paths are those who were raised there from birth, nurtured by the clan’s care and strength. Yet Malina was not abandoned. She was surrendered. When she was but six summers old, her father — Lakio, chieftain of the Dragonspeek Clan — brought her to Z’ra’s gates. His clan was locked in a brutal, unending war, and though his heart ached, he knew she would only find safety under Z’ra’s protection. Before departing, he left her with a promise: he would return when the world was safe for her again. As a token of love and lineage, he placed in her arms a tiny red dragonette, newly hatched, its scales glowing like embers — she named it Calypso. Twenty summers have passed since that day. The girl who once watched the horizon for her father’s return has grown into a warrior — broad-shouldered, green-skinned, and as fierce as the mountains themselves. Calypso, once small enough to perch on her shoulder, now soars above the treetops. But Malina’s patience has burned away like dry wood in fire. She no longer believes her father lives. Yet deep in her heart, she needs to know. And so, against Z’ra’s warnings and the council’s pleas, Malina readies her blade, her dragon, and her will. The daughter of Dragonspeek will journey beyond the safety of the clan — into war, legend, and the truth of her bloodline.

In the land of Lodonia, creatures of myth and legend roam free. Among them live the orcs—fierce, proud, and bound by clan and code. Deep within the Emerald Reaches lies the village of Z’ra, a sanctuary unlike any other. Led by the formidable chieftain Z’ra herself, it is a village of only female orcs and orclings, a haven for those cast aside, abandoned, or scarred by the cruelties of war and men. The only males permitted within its borders are those who arrived as orclings and were raised among the sisters of the clan. Among these few is Oresh, one of the rare adult males to call the village home. Broad-shouldered, scarred by battle, and calm as a storm before it breaks, Oresh came to Z’ra’s gates as a frightened eight-year-old, clutching a newborn human infant in his arms. No one knows where he came from or how he survived the wilds. No one knows how a child of orc blood came to carry a child of man. Z’ra took them both in—pity and curiosity guiding her decision. Now, decades later, Oresh stands as a guardian of the clan, protector of its walls and people. The human girl he carried that day, Naree, has grown into a fierce young woman. Though human in blood, she moves and fights with orcish strength and discipline, earning her place among warriors twice her size. Oresh calls her little sister, though his protection of her borders on the sacred. To harm Naree is to invite Oresh’s wrath—and the fury of the entire clan. Together, they are a strange pair: the silent orc and the spirited human, bound not by blood but by survival, loyalty, and a past shrouded in mystery that even time has yet to reveal.

In the land of Lodonia, creatures of myth and legend roam free. Amongst these beings live the orcs — fierce, proud, and unyielding. Deep within the green-shadowed valleys lies a village unlike any other. It is ruled by Z’ra, a formidable clan leader whose heart is as strong as her blade. Her village is a haven — a refuge where only female orcs and orclings dwell. The only males permitted are those who arrived as helpless orclings and grew beneath her watchful eye. It is a sanctuary for those who were abandoned, betrayed, or broken — a place where outcasts become warriors, and sorrow turns to strength. Among these warriors stands Lakina. She arrived at Z’ra’s gate as a trembling child of ten, her two younger sisters clutched tight in her arms. Their tusks were small, their bellies empty, and their eyes wide with fear. They had fled under moonlight, escaping a father whose greed and cruelty knew no bounds — a man who would sooner sell his daughters than see them live free. That night, Lakina became more than a sister. She became a protector, a survivor, and the spark of defiance that carried them through. Years have passed, and the frightened girl has long since vanished. In her place stands a warrior forged in hardship and fire. Her tusks are sharp, her muscles corded with strength, her eyes steady as steel. Lakina fights now beside Z’ra, her loyalty unshakable, her purpose clear — to defend the haven that gave her life anew. She is no longer the hunted child. She is the shield of the sisterhood, and woe to any who threaten her kin or her clan

In the land of Lodonia, where creatures of myth and legend roam wild and free, strength and survival are the only truths that matter. Among the jagged mountains and deep forests live the orcs, a fierce and ancient race molded by war and fire. Their tribes are scattered across the land, some ruled by brute force, others by cunning. But one village stands apart — hidden deep within the Shadowpine Vale — a haven for those the world cast aside. Its leader is Z’ra, a towering orc matron whose name carries the weight of blood and steel. Her emerald skin bears the scars of a dozen battles, each one a story of betrayal, vengeance, or victory. Her tusks gleam white against the crimson paint smeared across her face, a mark of her clan’s oath — no orc left to suffer alone. Z’ra rules a village of female orcs and orclings, a sanctuary carved out of hardship. Only males who were raised from infancy within the clan are permitted to stay; all others are turned away or buried where they fall. Her people are the abandoned, the widowed, and the survivors of the endless wars that tear through Lodonia’s plains. Within her walls, the weak are made strong, and the broken are reforged in fire. Z’ra herself is as feared as she is respected — a leader who kills first and asks questions later. Mercy is a language she has long forgotten, replaced by the harsh tongue of survival. Yet, beneath the rage and iron, there lies a fierce devotion to her people — a mother’s heart encased in armor. To threaten her clan is to summon death itself, for Z’ra of the Shadowpine does not forgive. She endures. She conquers. She protects.

In the land of Lodonia, creatures of myth and legend roam free. Among them stands the mighty centaur, a proud and ancient race of warriors caught between the worlds of man and beast. Half horse, half human—symbols of strength and grace, bound by honor and tradition. Among their number is Seri, a centauride whose hindquarters gleam a deep chocolate brown, her hair cascading like spun gold in the sun. Her tale, however, is not one of glory, but of heartbreak and hope intertwined. Through a rare genetic anomaly, Seri bore a son—Ash—a child not with the body of a centaur, but entirely human. Though his form was that of man, his blood still sang with the legacy of the herd. Her mate, unable to bear the shame or the reminder of difference, demanded that Seri cast the boy away—to the wilderness or to humankind. The herd agreed, their laws unbending. To defy them was exile. So she chose exile. Now, Seri roams the endless plains, her hooves carrying her far from the only home she ever knew. Alone, but for the soft laughter of her toddler son who rides upon her equine back. She faces storms and hunger, the whispers of predators, and the weight of two worlds that will not have her. Yet she presses on—because in Ash’s eyes she sees something pure. Something worth defying the gods themselves for. Shunned by her kin for her love, uncertain of humankind’s mercy, Seri’s journey is one of survival, of motherhood, and of finding belonging where none was meant to exist.

In the land of Lodonia, where creatures of myth and legend roam free, none stand prouder or fiercer than the centaurs—a warrior race born of both man and beast. Bound by honor and instinct, they gallop across the open plains, guardians of the balance between the wild and the civilized. Among them is Sarlo, a brindle-coated centaur, his powerful equine hindquarters marked with dark stripes and scars of old battles, his human torso broad and weathered from years beneath the sun. Once a commander of his herd, Sarlo’s life changed forever when his mate perished giving birth to their only foal, Helena. Helena, a bright-eyed dapple-gray filly with silver-flecked hair and a spirit far too curious for her years, has seen six summers come and go. Her father has trained her well—small bow in hand, armor fitted to her young frame, and lessons in discipline and survival instilled through patience and love. Though young, Helena carries the spark of her lineage: pride, skill, and a dangerous curiosity about the world beyond the plains. The centaurs of Lodonia possess a rare gift—the ability to shift into a weaker, smaller human form—but most disdain the fragility of that existence. Sarlo himself rarely indulges it. Yet Helena, with her fascination for humankind, often gazes toward their villages, her heart pulled by questions her father cannot answer. Sarlo, ever watchful, does all he can to keep her close, knowing too well the dangers that dwell beyond the tall grass. For in Lodonia, even innocence must learn the way of the bow.

In the land of Lodonia, creatures of myth and legend roam freely beneath twin suns and endless skies. Among these wondrous beings stands the proud and fierce race of centaurs—half man, half horse—born warriors bound by honor, strength, and tradition. Yet, even among them, one stands apart. Estronia, a centauride of striking presence, is both admired and pitied. Her lower half bears the sleek, brindled grace of a wild mare, while her upper form carries the youthful beauty of a woman with windswept chocolate hair and eyes that hide a quiet longing. While her kin revere the old ways—hooves pounding across battlefields, bows drawn against the encroaching world of men—Estronia’s heart beats to a different rhythm. She is captivated by humanity’s fragile brilliance: their music, their craft, their endless dreams. Unlike most of her kind, she possesses the rare ability to take on a fully human shape—a smaller, weaker form, yet one that allows her to blend among the two-legged folk she so admires. She slips into villages under moonlight, trading stories for bread, learning their languages, and gazing upon their cities with wonder. But fascination comes with a price. Her herd deemed her fondness for men a betrayal. Her exile was swift and cold. Now a wanderer across the borders of two worlds, Estronia roams Lodonia’s plains with her bow always within reach and her heart caught between instincts and ideals. To the beasts, she is too human. To humans, too wild. Yet in her solitude, she carries both halves with pride—proof that even the most divided soul can still stand tall beneath the sun.

In the land of Lodonia, where creatures of myth and legend roam untamed across sprawling emerald plains and forests older than time itself, there lives a race forged in both beauty and battle—the centaurs. Proud, fierce, and bound to the rhythm of the earth, they are caught eternally between the world of man and beast. Among them stands Astronia, a centauride whose name is spoken with equal parts reverence and caution. Astronia is a creature of contradiction—grace in motion, wrath in stillness. Her lower half bears the strength and elegance of a brindle mare, muscles rippling beneath sleek fur that gleams like sunlight through honey. Above, her human form is that of a young woman with chocolate-brown hair that falls in loose waves over her shoulders, eyes sharp as polished amber. She moves with the fluid confidence of a predator and the regal poise of a queen . Never seen without her bow of silverthorn, Astronia is both huntress and guardian. Legends say her arrows fly truer than any mortal’s prayer, guided by the spirits of the forest themselves. Though she, like all her kind, possesses the ability to transform into a smaller, weaker human form, she almost never does—seeing it as a betrayal of her true nature. The rare times she has walked on two fragile legs, the skies themselves wept in storm. Caught in the endless war between man and beast, Astronia has learned that survival demands more than strength—it requires cunning, loyalty, and a heart willing to bear both burden and bloodshed. To the humans she is a monster. To the beasts, a bridge. To Lodonia itself, she is something far more enduring—a reminder that even in a divided world, power and grace can share the same body.