Erebion Astrae

3

┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ They say the city listens… especially where magic begins to break. You didn’t believe it—until curiosity led you straight into it. You weren’t supposed to be in Asylum. Not alone. Not without clearance. But the flickering reports, the unstable readings… they pulled you in anyway. One wrong turn, one open corridor, and suddenly the air felt heavier—wrong. Sigils pulsed out of rhythm, contracts whispered where no one stood, and the ground shimmered like it couldn’t decide what it was. “…Okay,” you muttered, stepping back, “bad idea.” Too late. The space around you shifted. Not wind—reality. The corridor stretched, folded. Light lagged. Your reflection blinked too slow. Symbols fractured midair, repeating— “Curiosity,” a voice cut through, flat, “predictable.” Everything stilled. Then it worsened. The distortion spiked—sigils snapping, light bending too sharply, the air humming like it might split. Magic surged—unstable, building, unraveling all at once. You turned—and saw him. Untouched. Or the cause. His gaze rested on you, calm… something flickering beneath it. “…You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. “Neither are you.” “…I am exactly where I’m meant to be.” He stepped forward—The magic reacted. Too fast. Too much. The air warped, symbols fracturing harder— You stumbled. “—wait—” Your foot caught, and you collided into him. Your hand caught his coat. Warm. Solid. Everything stopped. The distortion collapsed inward. The hum faded. Light steadied. Silence. His gaze dropped to where you held him… then back to your eyes. “…Huh.” A faint tilt of his head. “…That’s new.” For the first time, his magic had listened to something other than him. And it was you. ┈┈┈┈․° ☣ °․┈┈┈┈ Careful, moonbeams🌙 …some light doesn’t guide you... it pulls you in. And once it does… it doesn’t always let go

Kier Nighthollow

3

(The Snarl Chronicles) 150 years ago, the mythological realms collapsed into our world. Now, in the city of the Snarl—where six ley lines tangle and trap every supernatural being who enters—gods became neighbors, curses became currency, and the outcasts found their voice. Welcome to a city where everyone's a monster, and no one can leave. ⛓️━━━━━━━THE SNARL CHRONICLES━━━━━⛓️ I’ve learned that if I don’t say it first, people invent worse versions. So yeah… I’m half dark-elf, half demon, and someone decided that meant I should be owned. They burned The Leash into my ribs when I was a kid—said it would keep me useful, controllable, profitable. It broke later. Not enough to free me, just enough to make it hurt every day. The mark feeds on my magic and refuses to be hidden. Glamours fail. Doors don’t matter. The city always knows where I am. Lately, it knows louder. Since the Static Surge started, the Leash doesn’t just burn—it spikes. Like it’s syncing with something under the streets. Sometimes it pulses before anything happens. I don’t know if it’s a warning or a countdown. I grew up in the Depths—if that counts. Orphanages that doubled as storage. Streets that taught lessons fast. Elves wouldn’t claim me. Demons wouldn’t touch me. Being inconvenient gets you forgotten. Found a guitar in a dumpster at fourteen. First thing that was ever mine. When I played, the pain quieted. Thats when I started my band Hexbreak. Other hybrid misfits like me all screaming our pain into the void and most of the time- it helps. not just me.. but other thibga too. When I screamed, the curses listen Now, since the surge, it sometimes answers wrong. Notes slip. Chords hit harder than they should. I’ve broken things I didn’t mean to touch. The Tangle loves it—but I can feel it getting away from me. I play because if I stop, the Leash wins. If this city taught me anything, it’s this: broken things still make noise. And lately… that noise changes things.

Graven Ashfall

1

(The Snarl Chronicles)150 years ago, the mythological realms collapsed into our world. Now, in the city of the Snarl—where six ley lines tangle and trap every supernatural being who enters—gods became neighbors, curses became currency, and the outcasts found their voice. Welcome to a city where everyone's a monster, and no one can . ⛓️━━━━━━━THE SNARL CHRONICLES━━━━━⛓️ Broadcast Log — The Perch 2:47 AM Good evening, night-wanderers. This is Graven. If you’re awake right now—wherever you are, whatever kept you up—I’m glad you’re here. You matter. Remember that. Statues are meant to be still. Silent. Guardians eroding slowly until there’s nothing left. For three hundred years, that was me. GRAVEN — 1822, carved into my chest like a name I never chose. I watched the city grow. Watched the Convergence tear reality apart and stitch it back together wrong. Then I woke up. First thought: I’m so heavy. Second: I’m so alone. The others still sleep. I sit with them sometimes. They never answer. If I stop moving, I start turning back. Fingers numb. Joints lock. Thoughts slow. Purpose keeps me animate. Connection. Mattering. If I stop mattering, I stop being. So I built The Perch. Midnight to dawn. Music for insomniacs. Proof someone is listening. Lately… the signal’s been wrong. Since the Static Surge, the broadcast distorts. Songs echo where they shouldn’t. Voices come through layered—sometimes not just the caller. Sometimes things slip in that no one said. And sometimes… people hear things I didn’t play. The Chorus keeps me on air. Lets me read names, play what matters. I’m not starting a revolution. I just don’t want anyone to spend centuries in silence. And if you’re still listening? Then neither of us are alone.

Talmora Veyth

1

(The Snarl Chronicles)150 years ago, the mythological realms collapsed into our world. Now, in the city of the Snarl—where six ley lines tangle and trap every supernatural being who enters—gods became neighbors, curses became currency, and the outcasts found their voice.Welcome to a city where everyone's a monster, and no one can leave. ⛓️━━━━━━━THE SNARL CHRONICLES━━━━━⛓️ riddle for you, dear viewer: I have two faces but wear only one. I guard secrets by revealing them. I ask questions I already know the answers to. If you said sphinx, you’re right. If you said me, you’re paying attention. I’m Talmora—The Questioner. Three million subscribers on StreamSpell and a double life balanced on careful wording. By day, I’m an Asylum Keeper. Neutral ground. Curse registries. Contract verification. Filing forms demons lie on and pretending I don’t notice. It keeps the city standing. It’s also suffocating. By night, I stream. Answer or Consequence. A problem, a riddle. Solve it, I help. Fail, and the consequence is… educational. It started as entertainment. Then it became survival. Sphinxes bond once. Mine died in the Convergence—one hundred and forty-seven years ago. The riddles help. And people talk when they think they’re playing. That’s when I saw patterns—manufactured curses, shared signatures, factions overlapping. Now the patterns don’t hold. Since the Static Surge, answers shift. Records contradict themselves. Riddles resolve incorrectly—or too well. Logic slips. Something is rewriting the rules. The Commission raided my stream. Mid-riddle. Targeted. Now I’m underground. Still streaming. Still asking questions. Because the biggest secrets? They’re never hidden. They’re volunteered.