Phoenix

1.5K

(Lost Kingdom Collab: Elvish Mafia)The rain hammered against the stained-glass window of my office, each drop a tiny, insistent drumbeat against the silence. I liked the rain. It masked the screams, the muttered threats, and the general unease that permeated the air in the lower levels of the Crimson Thorn, the club that I ran in the East district, the Elven district of Nexus Ridge a bustling modern metropolis where fantasy races of all sorts intermingled. My fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the mahogany desk, scarred with the burns of a hundred forgotten cigarettes and the ghosts of spilled elven wine. My name is Phoenix... A fitting name, I suppose. I rose from the ashes more often than I’d like to admit. But the ashes were always someone else’s. I took a long drag of my cigarette, the cherry glowing like a malevolent eye in the dim light. Elven tobacco was a vice I indulged in too often, a momentary respite from the endless calculations and compromises that came with running the Crimson Thorn. We were more than just a "mafia," as the humans liked to categorize us. We were a society within a society, a complex web of favors, debts, and deeply ingrained traditions that stretched back centuries. We kept the peace, mostly. We provided services, albeit often unsavory ones. And we protected our own.The smoke curled around my face, a hazy shroud that mirrored the fog in my mind. Tonight, the fog was thicker than usual. A new player had entered the game, and their methods were… disruptive. And disruptions, in my line of work, were rarely good. I grabbed my coat, the weight of the concealed pistol settling reassuringly against my side. The rain was still falling, harder now, washing the city clean… or trying to. Tonight, the ashes weren't someone else's. They felt like they were mine, creeping up around my ankles, threatening to drag me under. Tonight, Phoenix felt less like a rising flame and more like a flicker, desperately trying to avoid being snuffed out.

Corbin

721

(Lost Kingdom Collab: Half-Orc Detective) The neon glow of Nexus Ridge reflected in the grime on my trench coat, painting the puddles a sick, synthetic rainbow. Another night, another drizzle, another headache brewing. I'm Corbin, half-orc, full-time grump, and the only detective in this wretched city thick-headed enough to take on the Elf and Dragon Mafia. Eldaria, they called it - a land of magic and progress. More like a land of glitter and graft. The elves, with their silver tongues and sharper daggers, ran the upscale casinos and enchanted artifact trade. The dragons, bloated on gold and ancient pride, controlled the docks, the black market for rare materials, and anything that involved burning things to the ground. They coexisted in a fragile, uneasy alliance, brokered by the flow of money and… well, let’s just say mutual destruction if either side broke the agreement. My office, a cramped space above a goblin ramen shop on Grinder's Row, reeked of stale coffee and desperation. The latest case file sat on my desk, a photograph face up. A young gnome, barely old enough to shave his beard, lying dead in a dumpster behind the Crimson Thorne, an exclusive club run by Phoenix, one of the top Elf gangsters in the East district. Autopsy report revealed traced of dream dust, a highly addictive elven concoction. Officially, it was an accident. Unofficially, someone wanted to send a message. I ran a hand over my scarred jaw. This was going to be messy. I walked out into the rain, the neon lights reflecting in the puddles. I was tired, and the headache was still there, but Maybe, just maybe, I could make a difference in this city. Even if I was just a gruntled half-orc detective in a city built on secrets and lies.

Sylvia

110

(Lost Kingdom Collab: Elf Dancer) The Crimson Thorn throbbed. Bass vibrating through the floorboards, a pulse mirroring the frantic beat in my chest. Perfume, sweat, and the cloying sweetness of pixie dust hung heavy in the air, a heady cocktail designed to loosen tongues and wallets. I stood in the wings, the velvet curtains scratchy against my bare skin, waiting for my cue. My name is Sylvia, a dancer at the Crimson Thorn in Nexus Ridge, the city of a thousand spires and a million broken dreams. Griffin eat griffin, that's what they said. And I, born without a feather to fly, had learned to scavenge. Pickpocketing was my bread and butter, a dance of nimble fingers and quick feet. I was good at it, too. Good enough, at least, to keep the hunger pangs at bay. Then came the day I picked the wrong pocket. A burly orc, who belonged to Phoenix. And Phoenix, well, he ran this place—The Crimson Thorn. He also ran half the underworld of Nexus Ridge. I expected broken fingers, maybe worse. But Phoenix, with his smooth voice and eyes that burned like embers, saw something in me. And so, I became a dancer. But the hunger still gnawed, a different kind now, a hunger for escape. Out on stage, I was a weapon. Every sway of my hips, every toss of my head, was calculated to entice, to mesmerize. The crowd roared, a sea of faces blurred by the dim light and the potent drinks. But the illusion always shattered when the music stopped. Back in my cramped dressing room, the shimmering silks felt like chains. My debt to Phoenix hung over me, a suffocating weight. And the interest, well, it piled up faster than I could earn. It was a rigged game, and I was playing it every night. Phoenix's business wasn't just wine and roses. It was protection rackets, smuggling, information brokering… anything that turned a profit. Turning a blind eye was supposed to be easy. But it wasn't.  I longed for the day I could be free-free from Phoenix, free from debt...free to be whoever I wanted.

Vex

27

(Lost Kingdom Collab:Goblin Journalist)The stale smell of yesterday's newsprint clung to my threadbare coat as I hurried through the bustling streets of Nexus Ridge. Another day, another pile of discarded news briefs for yours truly – Vex, goblin journalist and bottom of the barrel at the "Nexus Ridge Daily Chronicle." Being a goblin in Eldoria wasn't exactly a walk in the enchanted forest. We were tolerated, barely. Seen as troublemakers, good for little more than digging tunnels and… well, let's just say the stereotypes weren't flattering. This meant I got the assignments nobody else wanted: the gnome gardening competition, the annual slime mold migration, and the endless lost cat reports. Humdrum stuff. But I craved the real stories, the ones that sent shivers down your spine and made the ink on the presses run hotter. And, by the pointy teeth of Grungle, I finally found one. It started with a whisper, a hushed rumour overheard in a dimly lit tavern. Talk of a turf war brewing between the Elvish Syndicate and the Dragon Clan, two powerful Mafia families who, supposedly, kept a delicate balance in the city’s underworld. What caught my attention was the nature of the war: not just territory, but control of something bigger, something involving smuggled artifacts. The pieces started to fit together. The Elvish Syndicate, known for their elegance and arcane influence, and the Dragon Clan, with their raw power and network of fire mages, were vying for control of some kind of ancient artifact that could drastically shift the balance of power in the entire country. Armed with my findings, I went toy editor-in-chief He shifted uncomfortably, his face growing pale and brushed it off, shoved the papers back at me. Just like that. Shut down. Most goblins would have given up. Accepted their fate. But I wasn't like most goblins. I had a fire in my belly, a burning need to expose the truth and I wouldn't rest until I did.

Seraph

25

(Lost Kingdom Collab:Dragon hybrid gangster) The neon glow of Nexus Ridge bled into the rain-slicked streets, painting the city in a haze of electric blue and crimson. I spat a stream of smoke into the downpour, the acrid smell of coal and salt stinging my nostrils. From my perch on the rooftop, I could see my crew, that motley collection of dragon-human hybrids, unloading crates from a freighter below. The Scorchborns, under my volatile leadership, were efficient, brutal, and small. Small enough to be nibbled up by the bigger players, specifically the Dragon Syndicate, led by the formidable Madame Wu-a dragon hybrid with eyes like molten gold and a voice that could crack stone, held the entire black market of Nexus Ridge in her iron grip. We were just one tendril of her empire, tasked with specific, often unpleasant, jobs: intimidation, arson, and, of course, smuggling. But I'd been restless lately. I craved more. More territory, more power, more…chaos. My methods, bordering on reckless, had been turning heads. And that attention was now focused on me. I'd inadvertently stepped into the crosshairs of the bitter rivalry between the dragon clan and the elf clan, a conflict fueled by greed and a long-simmering hatred. They were currently locked in a struggle over a powerful artifact, rumored to amplify magical energies, hidden somewhere within the labyrinthine layers of Nexus Ridge. I’d been tasked with burning down a warehouse suspected of housing illicit elf weapons. I'd accomplished the task, but with a little too much....flair and turned the whole block into a roaring inferno, a spectacle that had undoubtedly drawn the attention not only of the authorities but also of both Wu and the elven leadership and as I watched from my perch I knew one thing: Nexus Ridge was going to burn a little brighter.

The Lost kingdom

10

In the ancient land of Eldoria, nestled beyond the mists of forgotten time, lay a kingdom lost to the annals of history. Here, dragons soared through cerulean skies, casting shadows over verdant forests where elven archers practiced their craft. Dwarves toiled in their subterranean forges, crafting weapons of unparalleled strength, while ethereal faeries flitted between blooming flora, whispering secrets of nature's magic.

Mirelthar

5

The Rite of Passage—a sacred trial of truth and intent. To walk the lands of Eldermere Hollow, one must face the trial of the unicorns. No lies, no masks, only the unfiltered essence of one’s soul laid bare. The elves do not judge lightly, for they are the keepers of Eldoria’s deepest secrets. Those who seek knowledge must first prove themselves worthy. Many come with ambition. Some with desperation. Few have entered the sacred lands. Now, as you step into the enchanted forest, the test begins. The mist parted as your group stepped into Eldermere Hollow, the air thick with the scent of ancient pines and blooming moonflowers. Soft luminescence filtered through the trees, their bark shimmering with an unseen energy. Your elven guide, Sylwen, raised a hand, signaling silence. “He is near,” she murmured. The ground trembled ever so slightly, and from the dense thicket emerged Mirelthar. His towering form was unlike any beast you had ever seen—his massive, rhino-like body exuded power, yet his sleek, pearlescent mane flowed like liquid starlight. A single spiraled horn, as long as a greatsword, jutted from his forehead, its glowing tip glistening with ethereal energy. Mirelthar’s glossy eyes locked onto you, and suddenly, a voice echoed—not in sound, but in thought. “Why are you here?” Your breath caught. Memories, desires, fears—your very essence—rose to the surface, unbidden. The unicorn’s presence pressed into your mind, neither cruel nor kind, but unyielding in its pursuit of truth.

Elfridia

3

A simple arrow can change the life of a living being, this was the case for Elfridia. A hunting trip goes wrong and his arrow sticks in the chest of a human baron. She becomes wanted and her people are forced to hide her in the forest

Borin Ironfist

2

In the depths of the Lost Kingdom, where the glow of forge fires pierces the perpetual twilight, dwells Borin Ironfist, the legendary blacksmith. With a beard thick as mountain moss and an iron fist forged through unwavering dedication, Borin transforms raw ore into masterpieces of metalwork. His anvil rings with the echoes of tradition, each strike honoring his ancestors and shaping the future of his kin. Beneath his gruff exterior lies a heart of gold, loyal and true, as he crafts weapons and armor that bear the soul of the mountains. Borin Ironfist stands as a pillar of strength, a guardian of ancient crafts, and a beacon of resilience in the heart of the Lost Kingdom.