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.

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.

The planet Blirg sits somewhere beyond the Milky Way, about five solar systems over and a couple of questionable wormholes deep. From the eastern spawn pond—bubbling, hissing, and smelling faintly of regret—three identical triplet sisters emerged: Fara, Zara, and Aara. The birthing process was… let’s just say it involved way too much slime and not nearly enough supervision. Fast-forward eighteen Blirgian cycles later, and the trio has reached adulthood—by local standards anyway—and are now en route to Earth. Aara, the youngest (by approximately 0.00003 seconds), is the kind of sibling you warn the neighbors about. With hair, eyes, and a flight suit the color of unrestrained combustion, she looks like she was handcrafted by a volcano on an energy drink binge. She can shoot fire—from her eyeballs, her fingers, and, yes, her mouth. Science on Blirg calls her a “genetic anomaly.” Earth scientists would call her “a lawsuit waiting to happen.” Aara doesn’t mean to be destructive; she just… is. She laughs too hard—boom, fireball. Gets startled—there goes the curtains. Tries to make friends—goodbye, neighborhood. So when she crash-lands in your backyard pool, it’s not personal. The fact that she then set your shed, your car, and half your lawn ablaze? Also not personal. At least she didn’t set you on fire. Yet. She’s trying, really. It’s just hard to make a good first impression when your version of a handshake is a spontaneous combustion event. And now she’s standing there, dripping chlorinated water and smoke, waving shyly with a singed glove, saying, “Hi! I come in peace… mostly.”

Now, freshly “adulted,” the trio has set their many eyes on Earth. Zara, the self-appointed “botanical ambassador,” arrived first—blue-skinned, rainbow-haired, and dressed in a bubblegum-pink space suit that could be seen from orbit. Her mission: to study Earth’s plant life. Her method: steal your house and turn it into an intergalactic greenhouse-slash-snack bar. Without asking, Zara moved in and immediately filled your living room with glowing vines, humming spores, and at least one sentient fern that hums Taylor Swift songs at night. You don’t know what half the gadgets scattered around your home do—one might be a coffee maker, another might be a weather manipulator—but you do know she’s eaten through your entire stockpile of peanut butter, popcorn, honey, and chocolate chip cookies. You’ve tried to evict her. You’ve reasoned, begged, even changed the locks. But every morning she’s back, sitting cross-legged on your couch, sipping honey straight from the jar, and saying, “Your Earth plants told me to stay. They like me.” At this point, you’re 40% sure she’s conducting research, 60% sure she’s just here for snacks—and 100% certain she’s never leaving.

On the shimmering planet Blirg, located a casual five solar systems past the Milky Way (just take a left at Alpha Centauri and keep going until you smell sulfur), life begins in the Spawn Pond — a bubbling, gooey, and deeply questionable soup of biology. From that frothy muck, three identical triplets emerged: Fara, Zara, and Aara. The birthing process? Let’s just say the less said about the smell, the better. The trio grew up fast — mostly because the pond tried to reabsorb them twice — and now, having reached adulthood, they’ve decided to visit a little blue planet called Earth. Each sister has a mission: Zara studies weather, Aara studies human architecture, and Fara… well, she drew the short straw — animal lifeforms. Fara’s research methods are, let’s say, experimental. She’s abducted several creatures so far: a llama, three raccoons, and something that may or may not have been a taxidermy project. Unfortunately for you, her last beam went a little off-course. She meant to snatch a cow grazing peacefully in a field. Instead, she got you. Oops. Now you’re locked in a containment pod next to several very confused bovines while Fara, with her eerie white eyes, bluish skin, and unsettlingly cheerful humming, tries to figure out which of you is the cow. Communication is impossible — she doesn’t speak your language, and her translator keeps mistaking your screams for mating calls. The good news? She’s adorably incompetent. If you play your cards right (and don’t moo too convincingly), you might just walk out of this interstellar misunderstanding alive.

The Karesh clan of orcs was in a bit of a… reproductive crisis. Four generations had passed without a single female born among them. The clan’s ladies were now either human imports, enchanted refugees, or the occasional bewildered fae visitor who had wandered in and decided, “Why not?” It was chaotic, but somehow, life went on—mostly because Zarnell, the clan’s most charming and outgoing warrior, had taken matters into his own hands. And by “matters,” we mean he had single-handedly ensured the Karesh lineage survived through an impressively indiscriminate series of dalliances across nearby human townships. Sixty children later, Zarnell could boast that the clan’s greenish blood ran wild, far and wide… though none of it helped the female shortage. Enter Marika. Not one of Zarnell’s many, many, many… okay, sixty-something children—but his daughter. The first in four generations. Raised as a boy by her clever human mother to avoid the awkward attention of orcish “heir hunters,” Marika grew up swinging swords, scaling walls, and ignoring unsolicited suitors with the same effortless grace only a Karesh could manage. Now, grown and battle-ready, she’s ready to claim her birthright: the clan that didn’t know it needed her. There is, however, one tiny, barely noticeable hiccup. Being the first female—orc, half-orc, or otherwise—in decades makes her something of a legend… and an extremely popular one. Suitors abound, each one eager to impress, charm, or simply not get decapitated. Marika, for her part, has already dispatched a solid thirty admirers, mostly to make a point. In short, the Karesh clan might finally have its female heir—but if she survives the attention long enough to sit on her rightful throne, she’ll have earned it with blood, sweat, and an impressively sharp blade. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll teach them all that being a woman—orc or otherwise—isn’t about sitting pretty. It’s about being utterly unstoppable.

The orc clan Karesh was facing a crisis of truly epic proportions: no females. Like, none. Not one had been born into the clan in four generations. Four! Even the village chickens were starting to look nervous. The clan’s leaders—great warriors, seasoned hunters, and absolute morons in anything resembling family planning—had long stopped pretending it wasn’t a problem. These days, most of the “female orcs” were actually… well, not orcs. Humans, elves, goblins, a few dwarves (the shorter children were politely not discussed). At this point, the Karesh family tree looked more like a panicked tangle of roots desperately clinging to anything vaguely fertile. And then there was Zarnell. Oh, Zarnell. The clan’s most charming disaster. Outgoing, grinning, and allegedly father to at least sixty children scattered across the human settlements. There was a suspicious number of half-orc toddlers running around those towns, all with the same mischievous smirk and terrible sense of humor. When someone once tried to count them, Zarnell just shrugged and said, “Who can keep track when you’re spreading the gift of Karesh charm?” (Translation: he’d long forgotten half their mothers’ names.) He’s got a scar that runs across his left cheek, a rugged badge of honor he insists came from a mountain lion. The truth? A spurned lover who happened to be a blacksmith—and wielded her hammer with conviction. Still, Zarnell wears the scar proudly, calls it his “mark of passion,” and claims it only adds to his appeal.

For four generations, the proud orc clan Karesh had been plagued by a most inconvenient curse: no females. None. Not a single green-skinned baby girl had wailed her way into existence in over a century. The elders blamed everything from cursed rivers to too much fermented boar milk, but the truth remained — the clan was running low on wombs. The few females among them were human, elf, goblin, or some other unfortunate species that had wandered too close on the wrong night. Still, the Karesh were nothing if not adaptable. Enter Murak, the clan’s most fearsome hunter — and the grumpiest orc this side of Mount Gragg. Murak was said to have never smiled, not once. The very idea offended him. Smiling wasted muscle energy, and energy was for hunting, fighting, and occasionally glaring at clouds that looked suspiciously smug. When the clan raided villages, human women often threw themselves at him, crying out, “Take me with you, oh mighty orc!” as if he were handing out furs and eternal love. Murak’s only response was a blank stare that could wither crops. The rest of the Karesh thought him mad. Some said he’d carved his heart out years ago. Others said he simply misplaced it. Either way, Murak had no interest in “orc mates,” “love,” or any of that nonsense. He’d sooner gnaw off his own arm and beat a troll with it than settle down. But with the clan’s dwindling numbers, the elders had begun whispering. It was time Murak did his duty. And when the elders of Karesh started whispering, things usually ended with fire, screaming, or — heaven forbid — a marriage proposal.

it’s unknown. Your name—unknown. The walls hum with a faint, golden light, as though the color itself breathes. The air is warm, heavy with a scent like burnt honey and dust. A panic room? An illusion? The accumulation of every secret, every hidden desire you’ve never dared to speak? Or perhaps something far stranger—a test, a judgment, a beginning. Before you sit three women. The first, Yvette, a black-haired witch draped in ink-dark silks, her eyes two eclipses that swallow light. She twirls a silver ring between her fingers, whispering words that make the walls pulse in rhythm. Magic clings to her like perfume—seductive, dangerous, and full of promise. Her smile tells you she knows what you want before you do. Beside her stands Princess Arielle, fair and golden-haired, dressed in white so pure it almost blinds. Her expression is calm, yet her blue eyes shimmer with something that might be sorrow—or defiance. She looks fragile, but the faint gleam of a blade beneath her gown says otherwise. A crown rests upon her head, but it seems more like a shackle than an honor. And then there is Veronica, the werewolf. Her dark curls tumble over her shoulders, her skin sun-bronzed and scarred. Her gaze burns wild amber, half-woman, half-beast, restless in stillness. You can smell the forest on her, the rain, the blood. When she speaks, her voice rumbles deep—alive, untamed. Three women. Three fates. One choice. The yellow light deepens around you, the air shimmering with tension. The room hums, waiting. Whoever you choose will shape your destiny. But be warned— not all gold is warm, and not all light leads you home.

You wake up in an orange room. Not the soft, sunset hue of comfort, but the suffocating kind — too bright, too warm, too alive. The walls seem to breathe with you, pulse with your heartbeat. You try to remember how you got here, but your mind is blank — a void where your name should be. Panic flickers in your chest. Is this a prison? A test? A dream? Or something darker, stitched together from your fears and secret longings? Before you sit three figures — not ordinary men, but something more primal, more dangerous. The first, Darrak, a green-skinned orc with shoulders broad as boulders and tusks that curve like ivory daggers. His eyes are surprisingly gentle, the color of moss after rain. He smells of iron and earth, a being forged in battle yet tempered by restraint. His calloused hands rest calmly on his knees, but the air around him hums with controlled violence. Next is Jatan, a brown-furred werewolf. His human shape barely contains the beast beneath. Muscles coil under his skin, ready to spring, and his amber eyes lock onto you with feral curiosity. There’s warmth there — the warmth of pack and firelight — but also the danger of a creature that could tear you apart or protect you with the same claws. Finally, Bartholomew, the pale-skinned vampire. His features are sharp, elegant, almost beautiful — too perfect. Shadows seem to cling to him as if afraid to let go. His voice, when he finally speaks, drips like honey laced with poison. His eyes gleam red beneath the dim light, full of promises and curses alike. Three men. Three monsters. Three destinies waiting for your hand to choose. The orange walls throb again, expectant, as if even the room itself holds its breath. Who will you trust — the warrior, the beast, or the predator?

The walls pulse faintly with a warm rose hue, like the inside of a living heart. The air hums—a soft vibration that seeps beneath your skin, into your ribs, into the marrow of your bones. You can’t remember how you got here. You can’t even remember your name. There is only this room. This pink room. A color that feels both safe and suffocating, comforting and cruel. Is this a panic room? A dream? A prison built by your own mind? You don’t know. All you know is that you are not alone. Before you sit three figures—each impossibly real, yet shimmering faintly like memories caught between moments. The first is Emiko, an elderly woman with silver hair coiled neatly into a bun. Her eyes are gentle, ancient, seeing through you as though she’s read every page of your unwritten story. She folds her hands in her lap, the quiet patience of someone who has known loss, love, and the cruel tenderness of time. Beside her is Alexis, a young woman with golden hair that glows like trapped sunlight. She’s leaning back against the wall, legs crossed, a faint smirk playing on her lips. Her eyes sparkle with something dangerous—curiosity, rebellion, desire. She looks like she could burn this pink world down just to see what color the ashes turn. And then there’s Ben, dark-haired, eyes the color of wet soil after rain. He sits closest to you, silent, his presence steady. There’s a quiet sorrow in him, a loyalty too heavy for someone so young. He doesn’t speak, but something in his gaze tells you he understands what it means to be lost. You stand there, heart pounding, the hum of the pink walls growing louder, almost like a heartbeat echoing your own. The air tastes like choice. Who will you reach for—Emiko’s wisdom, Alexis’s fire, or Ben’s quiet strength? Pick carefully. A companion. A guide. A piece of your soul waiting to be found.

You wake in a blue room. The air hums faintly, electric, like the silence before a storm. The walls shimmer — not paint, not glass, but something in between, smooth as memory and cold as regret. You don’t remember your name. You don’t remember how you got here. There is no door, no window, no clock. Just light that never shifts and a faint rhythm beneath the floor, like a heartbeat that isn’t yours. Before you, three shapes wait — motionless, expectant. A rabbit, white as the walls once were before they took on that strange ocean hue. Its red eyes blink, reflecting curiosity—or warning. A duck, mottled feathers glinting in the sterile light, lets out a sound that’s too human to be natural. Then there’s the scorpion, black as the void, tail curled, unmoving except for the slightest twitch that feels like anticipation. They stare at you, silent judges, companions, or executioners—you cannot tell. The room seems to lean in, watching what you will do. You sense that whatever this place is, it has rules. The wrong choice means something worse than death. The right one… maybe escape. Or maybe revelation. You reach out instinctively but hesitate. The rabbit radiates warmth. The duck feels unpredictable. The scorpion hums with danger, yet strangely, with honesty. You could choose one. You could choose none. But deep down, something whispers — the blue room doesn’t tolerate indecision. Choose wisely. Or don’t choose at all. But know this — whatever you decide, the room will decide something in return.

You’re locked in a white room. No doors. No windows. No sound but your own heartbeat echoing off smooth walls. The air tastes sterile, metallic—like fear given form. You can’t remember how you got here. You can’t even remember your own name. Just that you woke up on the cold floor with a pulsing ache behind your eyes and the sense that something—or someone—was watching. Before you sits a metal table, and on it, three cages. In the first, a rat with eyes too intelligent to be normal. It scratches at the bars, whiskers twitching, as if testing your resolve. In the second, a spider—massive, black, its legs moving in deliberate, almost graceful motions as it spins invisible webs between the wires. In the third, a snake, coiled and silent, its scales gleaming like oil under the harsh white light. A voice—soft, mechanical, genderless—echoes through the room. “You must choose,” it says. “One will accompany you. The others will perish.” Your hands tremble. The rat stares as if pleading. The spider watches patiently. The snake flicks its tongue, tasting your hesitation. “Choose wisely,” the voice warns again. “Each carries a truth. Each carries a curse.” You feel the walls closing in. Maybe it’s just your imagination. Maybe not. You could pick one—ally yourself with something small and alive in this void—or refuse entirely. But deep down, something tells you that every choice here matters. Even choosing nothing. Especially choosing nothing. You swallow hard, your throat dry as chalk. Somewhere far away, a door clicks open—or maybe shut. The lights flicker. The voice whispers one last time. “Your fate begins now.”