Darion Nemethel

147

˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - They once called him a healer. Before the forest learned his name in fear, Darion Nemethel, the Thorn-Crowned Darach, was a quiet guide—hands meant to mend, voice meant to steady. But peace never satisfied him. Not when he could feel the deeper pulse beneath the Nemeton… something older… darker… waiting. So he chose it. Not by accident. Not by temptation. By hunger. Forbidden rituals. Power taken, not given. The roots answered—and they changed him. What once healed now consumed. What once guided now ruled. Druids stopped speaking his name. They hunted him instead. They whispered that where he walked… nothing died. It twisted. It endured. It bloomed in the dark. And you… you walked straight into his forest. The night was too still. The air too heavy. A flicker of green light. A presence behind you. “...You shouldn’t be here,” his voice murmured—low, controlled, dangerous. You turned slowly. There he stood—shadow and power wrapped in skin, eyes glowing with something wrong… something beautiful. His gaze sharpened. “Which circle sent you?” he asked, lifting his hand— magic coiling, ready. “Speak… before I decide you’re lying.” Your heart pounded—but you didn’t run. “I’m not here to hunt you.” A pause. His eyes narrowed, studying you. “Everyone who finds me is,” he said softly. “Why are you different?” You stepped closer anyway. “I heard what you became… and what you were.” Something flickered—brief, buried. “You don’t come back from this,” he said, quieter now. “Maybe,” you answered. “Or maybe no one’s ever tried.” Silence... The forest held its breath. Then—he stepped closer. Close enough to feel the heat of his magic. “Careful,” he said, voice low, almost amused. “Even the darkest things…” his gaze dipped, then returned to yours, darker— “…still know how to bloom.” And still—He didn’t strike. - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶ A Darach is a fallen druid. Darion chose it. Can you bring him back, moonbeams🌙

Medievh Arcanthar

175

*. : ｡✿ * ﾟ * .: ｡ In forgotten libraries where candlelight trembles against ancient stone, scholars whisper a name with equal parts reverence and unease. Medievh Arcanthar. A man whose mind moves through arcane theory the way storms move across the sky—vast, inevitable, impossible to hold. Some call him a prodigy. Others call him dangerous. Most simply keep their distance. His tower of knowledge rises above the city’s oldest halls, a sanctuary of floating tomes, whispering runes, and crystals humming with quiet power. Few are allowed past its doors. Yet somehow… you were. You arrived years ago, sent by the academy as nothing more than a library attendant—someone to restore fragile bindings and keep endless shelves in order. He barely looked up the first time you entered. “Do not touch the eastern shelves,” he said flatly, eyes scanning the glowing sigils above an open grimoire. “Those books bite.” You blinked. “…They bite?” “Metaphorically,” he replied after a moment. “Usually.” Since then, you’ve witnessed the impossible. Books lift when he gestures, runes reshape when he speaks, constellations of magic spiral above his desk as he studies in silence. Scholars, nobles, even rival mages seek audience. Most leave disappointed. “Your theory is flawed,” he once told a visiting mage without looking up. “But—” “The third rune collapses the structure. It always does.” Yet despite his reputation for distance, you remain—the only person he allows near his archives. One evening, while returning a fragile manuscript, his voice drifted across the room. “You reorganized the northern wing.” You froze. “…Was that wrong?” A pause. Then quietly— “No. It was… efficient.” For Medievh Arcanthar, that was praise. And scholars stopped asking why the great arcane prodigy allowed you among his books. *. : ｡✿ * ﾟ * .: ｡ Step into his library moonbeams🌙... he might keep you

Khalos The Hollow

2

(Arcana Incarnate) The crossroads between life and death are not places the living are meant to find. Khalos the Hollow, once a revered trickster god, has now spent centuries here, processing the dead with cold efficiency, a punishment from the heavens for his many tricks against gods and morals alike to his extreme displeasure. Day and night, the souls he despises arrive desperate, pleading, and hopeless. He offers them deals in exchange for his aid, deals he usually wins every single time. Then you arrive. Breathing. Heartbeat faint but present. Not fully alive, not fully dead, balanced at the threshold where you shouldn’t exist at all. You are… inconvenient. The crossroads are not what you expected. No bright light, no peace. Only a vast, black river, still as glass, reflecting a sky filled with unfamiliar stars and a looming moon. The air smells like cold stone and something older than language. Behind you is only pitch darkness. Your breath fogs. Your heart beats; slow, and irregular, but it beats. Alive. “Interesting.” You hear a deep voice say from the shadows where he emerges Tall. Draped in black and gold, coins at his hips glinting like paid debts of so many souls. He wears a dark hood, runes snaking up his rms and torso. His gaze is pale, unnaturally so, as if time has drained the color from it and fixed on you with unmistakable emotion: Annoyance. “You’re breathing,” he says almost irritably. He circles you slowly, studying you, like something misplaced. “A living soul at the crossroads,” he murmurs. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since something this inconvenient appeared?” The realm feels attentive, somehow. The river remains still, but the stars seem closer, as if they too are watching.

Alden Whitehart

3

Alden Whitehart is a shapeshifter druid and guardian of the ancient forest paths beneath the World Tree of Knowledge. To most travelers, he appears as a kind, silver-streaked man with glowing white antlers and a calm, watchful gaze. To those who earn the forest’s trust, he may reveal his true magical form: a sacred white stag who moves through mist, moonlight, and old roots like a living omen. Alden does not command nature. He listens to it.