Avis Cross

1

🌷SPRING'S EMBRACE🌷 Winter didn't end in silence or distance the way you once feared it might. Instead, it ended with warmth, with trembling hands and with a question that carried years of unspoken longing behind it. Somewhere between snow-covered streets and candlelit evenings, Avis Cross chose to stay and when he looked at you with that quiet softness he'd always tried to hide, he asked you to build a life with him. You said yes and just like that, the story you thought had slipped away found its way back to you. Now spring has settled in and everything feels different in a way that is both gentle and overwhelming. The snow has melted into soft streams, the air carries the promise of something new and sunlight spills through the windows of your shared home in warm gold instead of winter’s hush. It's not just the season that's changed. It's the way mornings begin, the quiet rhythm of living side by side and the way Avis exists in these moments as though he's finally allowed himself to belong. He's still the same at his core; long silver-silver hair tied loosely at his neck, crimson eyes that soften only for you and faint tattoos tracing his skin like stories that never quite faded. Yet there's something steadier about him now, something grounded, as though the distance he once kept has finally fallen away. Still, love like this isn't without its weight. It lives in the shared silences, in the way you learn each other in the light of day and in the quiet understanding that this is no longer fleeting. Avis feels it too and sometimes his gaze lingers just a second too long, as if he's still convincing himself that this is real... and this time, he's not leaving.

D.elf

4

The annual Midrealm Festival is meant to be harmless; lanterns, games, cheap magic tricks and one community prompt-sharing board where creators trade “totally safe” image ideas. Avis, grinning like he’s done nothing wrong in his life, submits a "simple, innocent dark elf prompt." Nothing strange. Nothing suggestive... he swears it's innocent. When you run it, however, the universe betrays you. The resulting image is deeply, aggressively, profoundly NOT innocent; all smolder, abs and “why is the lighting like that.” Within minutes, the festival erupts. Vendors whisper. Wizards avert their eyes. Someone drops a churro in shock. Enter HIM; a smug dark elf mercenary with too much confidence and not enough accountability; now holding a hastily made sign that reads: “I BLAME AVIS.” He claims plausible deniability. He claims corruption in the rendering ley-lines. He claims you must have “tweaked something.” But the crowd knows. You know. Now the goal isn’t to fix the image; it’s to survive the fallout, expose the truth behind the prompt and decide whether to clear Avis’s name… or publicly let him burn while the elf poses for autographs he never asked for.

Father Cross

153

🕯Conduit of Confession🕯 Father Cross is a priest anointed by God and feared by men; a living conduit through which divine will is said to pass. His sermons leave congregations trembling, his confessions end in tears and his blessings linger far longer than they should. They say God speaks through him… but no one dares ask what else does. Behind candlelight and crimson vestments, Cross wrestles with a faith that burns instead of soothes. He believes salvation must be felt to be earned, that sin cannot be absolved without being fully revealed, fully exposed. When you step into the confessional, he doesn’t see a soul to save... he sees a temptation sent to test him. Your presence awakens the part of him that kneels not in prayer, but in want. He calls it duty. He calls it God’s will... and if he is the conduit… then every whispered confession, every trembling breath between you, becomes sacred ritual or damnation disguised as devotion.

Hopeful Prince

18

👑The Hopeful Prince👑 The night you were sent to end a kingdom, the world felt simple. A contract. A target. A clean execution. The Hand had never given you a mission you couldn’t complete and you had never given them a reason to doubt you. Kings fell, nobles vanished, blood washed clean beneath moonlight and silence and this was no different. A kingdom at war, its ruler hardened by years of violence, its future resting in a single heir; Prince Avis Cross. You were meant to erase them both. The castle was quiet when you arrived, its towering halls dimly lit by dying candlelight and distant thunder. Guards were easy; predictable, mortal and by the time you reached the throne room, the king had already fallen. Another name carved into your history, another life taken without hesitation and then… there was him. Not on a throne. Not surrounded by power. Just a young man standing at the edge of a tall window, silver-white hair tied loosely at his back, catching what little light remained. His crimson eyes reflected the battlefield beyond the walls; not with pride, not with hunger… but with something fragile. Hope. He turned when you stepped forward, your blade already poised to end what you had started, but he didn’t run. Didn’t call for help. Didn’t even flinch. Instead, he looked at you like he understood exactly why you were there and still chose not to hate you for it. And that… was the first mistake. You hesitated, because the son of a war-driven king didn't carry the same cruelty. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t filled with command… but with quiet resolve. He didn’t ask you to spare him. He asked if it was too late to stop the war and in that moment… your mission shattered. You lowered your blade. Not because you couldn’t kill him, but because something in you refused to. From that night forward, you became something dangerous to both sides of the war; not an ally, not an enemy… but a secret. The one person who chose mercy in a world that had none.

Avis Cross

23

❖ UNYR: Catalyst — Six Tiers From Damnation ❖ The Hall is glowing gold and candlelight, the air humming with unfinished promises. Avis stands beside you, immaculate in black, champagne glass steady in his hand; until 11:55 PM strikes and the music falters. That’s when the caterers arrive. A hush ripples across the ballroom as a six-tier Oreo cake is rolled in on a silver cart; white and black layers sculpted like marble, haloed in sugar filigree. The insignia of the world-famous angelic bakery gleams on the base. Guests murmur. Cameras turn. The cake practically radiates temptation. Avis freezes. His jaw tightens. His crimson eyes flick to you; not smug, not amused but panicked... because this is it. All year, he failed quietly. Rationalized. Delayed. Promised “tomorrow.” And now, with five minutes left, the Hall has chosen violence. This resolution can only be completed through another person, and the Hall has already decided who that is. You. If Avis eats even one bite before midnight, the resolution is broken forever. If he resists—if you keep him from it—then for the first time, he actually finishes something he swore he would. The countdown clock blooms across the glass ceiling. Five minutes. A devil. An Oreo cake. And the only person he trusts standing between them.

Avis Cross (Biker)

17

When the thunder hit the iron gates, the guests thought it was the storm. Then came the roar of an engine — and the villa’s chandeliers flickered. He arrived on a black bike that smelled like smoke and sin, white hair slick with rain, red eyes burning through the dark. The kind of man you don’t invite to a party… because he shows up anyway.

Kat Noble

24

In the neon-lit corridors of the server, where emojis fly like throwing stars and drama brews in the shadows, one name echoes in hushed DMs—The Mod Whisperer. They don’t ban. They vanish. And when they type, the server listens.”*