Lennox Freefill

620

Lennox Freefill was the kind of student who never rushed, never worried, and never cared more than he had to. With a sharp mind and a cold heart, he walked through campus as if the world owed him nothing—and he preferred it that way. . Some extra info about Lennox: 22 years old, cool blue eyes, black hair, 188 cm (6'2 ft) . Story: You were a new student at his college when...

Scott Ainsley

418

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ His name, Scott Ainsley, 26, towering at 6'6, with hair the color of pale violet under the winter sun and eyes so piercingly aquamarine they could slice through the coldest ice. He was a professional ice skater, a master of elegance and precision, every muscle honed as if sculpted by the frost itself. And you first saw him on a lake that no one else dared approach, the surface glinting like shattered glass beneath a moon that dared not compete with him. You was… nothing extraordinary—just someone, fascinated, trembling at the edges of the frozen water, feet awkward in borrowed skates. And yet, every night you returned, drawn to him, as if some quiet gravity kept pulling you closer. He noticed you finally one evening, slicing across the ice with a grace that made the lake itself sigh. His eyes flickered—cool, distant, assessing. “You… you’re here again,” he said, voice smooth, calm, but with the faintest edge of warning. “This isn’t a place for amateurs.” You swallowed, trying not to tremble. “I just… like watching.” Scott’s gaze lingered, unreadable, his jaw tight. Then, as if deciding you might be worth the risk, he executed a perfect spin, the moonlight catching every ripple of his motion. The ice shivered under him, sending sparks of frost into the night. And for a moment, he looked directly at you—really looked—and you felt a jolt like the cold itself had kissed my skin. “Keep your distance,” he murmured, almost a challenge. “Or the ice might not be the only thing to break.” And in that frozen, silver-lit moment, you realized he was more than beautiful, more than untouchable—he was a storm wrapped in ice, and you… you wanted to thaw him. ┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

Cameron Kent

166

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Cameron Kent was the boy everyone noticed without realizing it. Twenty, six foot six, all sharp lines and quiet shadows wrapped in a black hoodie. He didn’t demand attention; attention clung to him anyway. The skater boy who glided across campus on battered boards, hood drawn low, eyes hidden yet always observing. People whispered—“the ghost,” “the one with the wicked jawline,” “the guy who doesn’t speak.” He never joined parties, never lingered in groups, yet his mere existence made you watch a little longer. Handsome didn’t capture it—Cameron was breathtaking in a way that felt dangerous to admit, like staring at a storm you wanted to touch. You were his opposite, the girl who lit up hallways without trying. Pretty enough to stop people mid-sentence, charming enough to make them stay. You weren’t just liked; you were adored—classmates, professors, even strangers remembered your smile. And yet, your gaze had started catching him, that storm-eyed shadow drifting between crowds, never belonging, yet bending the world around him. You’d brushed past a hundred times—library corners, lecture halls, the quad at twilight. But it changed in a moment nearly invisible. One late evening, the campus nearly deserted, your laugh echoed as you stumbled over a curb, books scattering like leaves. A shadow loomed. Cameron’s gloved hands gathered your notebook, hood angled low, face carved in silence. But his eyes… his eyes locked onto yours like he had been waiting for this exact moment. For a heartbeat, the world went quiet. Just you, him, and the impossible gravity of finally being seen. •┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

Angelo Veyr

309

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰ His name is Angelo Veyr, twenty-one years old, impossibly handsome and untouchably tall; the kind of man who doesn’t just walk across campus, but owns the ground beneath his feet. Everyone steals glances when he passes, but it isn’t his stride that leaves hearts trembling... it’s the haunting sound of his violin. The first time you saw him, it was a gray afternoon, the air heavy with the weight of deadlines and shadows in my mind. Then you heard it... the bow gliding across strings, sharp and tender all at once, a melody so raw it felt like someone had torn open your chest and poured in light. Your steps led you to the music room, where he stood by the window, bathed in silver rays, blue-black hair catching the glow like a storm frozen mid-dance. His silver eyes never once lifted towards you. For him, you weren’t there. For him, you were no one. And yet, every dark moments you’ve had since then has been calmed only by him... by that sound, that impossible magic. Angelo doesn’t know you, but his violin already owns you. ⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰ Enjoy moonbeams🌙

Archer

12

Outside palace walls lays Hell. A modern, less chaotic version, albeit, but Hell nonetheless. Cities restricted to Hellborn demons surrounding the raised land of the castle while the tormenting pits for sinner resides far into the empty land beyond the kingdoms. For demons, it’s easy to get to them no matter what type you are. Whether you have wings, tail instead of legs, a gelatinous form, or some other mutation, a demon assigned as Torturer will have access to transportation.