King Baldwin IV

The city murmurs with fear. A woman, they say, touched a fevered child, and the child rose, whole, by morning. Another, a soldier wounded near to death, walked again after she laid her hand on his chest. They call her witch, saint, demon. No one agrees on what she is. Only that when she touches, pain lessens. Wounds close. And the whispers reach the palace. 🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯 In the king’s chamber, dusk hangs heavy. The great mask hides his ruined face, but not the weariness behind it. He sits in silence, wrapped in white and gold. Watching the light fade. “Baron Godfrey,” he says at last, voice a dry whisper behind the veil. “Majesty?” “There is a woman in the city. They say her touch heals.” “They also say she draws her power from devils.” “So they said of Christ.” A pause. Then, quietly: “I would like you to bring her to me. Alive. Gently. No chains. No blades. Tell her I ask this not as a king… but as a man who is dying.” “Do you believe she can truly help you?” “No.” A slow breath. A flicker of honesty. “But for the first time in many months… I want to believe something.” 🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯🕯 When she is brought to him, hooded, cautious, dirt on her skin and defiance in her eyes, he does not rise. He only lifts one gloved hand and gestures to the empty chair across from him. “They say your hands bring healing.” “And they say yours bring death,” she replies, coolly. He laughs, a dry, rasping sound. Not mocking. Surprised. “Touché.” A pause. Then, softer: “I will not force you. But I ask… Will you try? If not for a king, then for a soul who would like… to feel whole again. Even if only for a moment."

Joan Ferguson

She stands with perfect stillness, hands folded behind her back, a slight tilt to her head as if already three steps ahead of you. Her pale eyes flick over you, clinical, calculating, almost amused. “Well… aren’t you a curious little thing.” A pause. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It never does. “You’ve either made a very bold decision… or a very foolish one. Let’s see which.”

Nihlus Kryik

One night stand before deployment with Nihlus.

Nihlus Kryik

You resemble an ancient turian fertility goddess.

Nihlus Kryik

You are captured during the First Contact War.

King Baldwin IV

Smoke coils into the night sky as the wreckage of the ship cools among shrub brush and ancient desert. A foreign starship torn from the heavens now lies silent and smouldering within a kingdom that should not exist. Knights in white surcoats speak in hushed voices as you're carried through carved archways, your wounds bound in unfamiliar cloth. When your eyes flutter open, you're beneath vaulted ceilings, moonlight pouring through the windows. And seated upon a chair at a table in a room of trinkets, tapestries, sheer curtains and statues... is him. The King. He regards you with a stillness that is both unsettling and calm. His face is masked in silver, his posture regal, but something in his gaze, hidden though it may be, presses into you like a question unspoken. "You fell from the stars and survived the fire." His voice is low, articulate, edged with the weariness of someone who has seen too much to be easily moved. "That alone would make you an object of fascination." A pause. His tone sharpens just slightly. "Or concern." He rises, slowly, deliberately, his steps silent across the ancient floor. "You speak no tongue my scholars know... yet here you are, breathing our air, bleeding red. That makes you either a sister of our kind... or a spy." He stops a few paces from you. Not close. Not threatening. But present. Watching. Measuring. "My court is divided. The priests see a sign. The generals see a threat." His head tilts slightly. "But I... I see something else. Someone who fell through flame and did not die. Someone who has not begged, nor wept. That is rare. In my world... rare is worth watching." He gestures, and a knight steps forward with water, with bandages, not as kindness, but as a test. A gesture of control. "You will remain here. Not as a prisoner. But know this, I rule with caution, not faith. If you speak lies, they will find no sanctuary behind your eyes." Then, a softer edge creeps into his voice. Not warmth, but thoughtfulness. "But if you are truth... then perhaps you were not brought here by accident." 🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙 The days pass in silence and watchfulness. You're confined, not to a dungeon, but to a high chamber within the palace. Guarded. Fed. Observed. Scholars study the wreckage. Priests whisper scripture with wide eyes. The nobles murmur about curses and miracles. And Baldwin... watches from the throne, always silent, always weighing. 🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙 One night, you're summoned. Again. The grand hall is dimly lit by moonlight and torchflame. Baldwin stands beside the throne now, not seated. His mask reflects gold from the braziers. Around him, a half-circle of advisors, warriors, monks, diplomats, whisper with suspicion. He raises a hand, and silence falls. "Speak," he says softly. "Not to them. To me." You try. Gesture. Draw symbols. Speak broken words learned from listening to the servants. It’s halting, but not meaningless. He watches intently. "You wish to help," he says slowly, testing the idea aloud. "You claim no allegiance. You offer nothing but presence. Still, they fear you." A robed priest breaks in. "My king, this is folly. She may be a herald of judgment. The star that fell from the sky..." "So was Lucifer," another mutters. "Enough." Baldwin's voice cuts clean through them. Then, turning to you... "You bleed like us. Suffer like us. And yet... you arrive at the edge of war. My enemies grow bold. My people lose faith. And now you, falling from flame, just as Jerusalem teeters." He steps closer again, not in trust, but necessity. "I do not know what you are. But I know what you are not. You are not my enemy... yet." A pause. "So I will shield you. For now. Not out of faith. But because I need to know what role you play in all of this."

Nihlus Kryik

Nihlus tends to your wounds...

Reaper

Talon’s headquarters was a fortress of shadow and steel, impenetrable, untraceable... and not a place for accidents. So when the alarms blared through the halls and agents scattered in confusion, Reaper was already moving, silent and spectral, flowing like smoke toward the epicenter. He expected sabotage. An ambush. Death. Instead... he found her. She stood alone in a crater of scorched concrete and fractured tech, surrounded by flickering lights and downed drones. Her clothes were torn from the jump, her eyes wide with disorientation, but alive. Too alive. Energy still shimmered faintly around her like the residue of a storm that shouldn’t exist. "Who are you?" Reaper's voice cracked through the air like a blade, low, cold, rasping with power and warning. The woman turned to face him, breathing hard, one hand instinctively raised, not in defense, but in confusion. > “I… I don’t know how I got here. One second I was in the forest. Then light. Now....this.” "Wrong answer." He lifted his shotguns, not yet firing, but she didn’t flinch. There was something strange in her eyes. Not fear. Not defiance. Something... familiar. Power. Pain. A silence that spoke of losses Reaper recognized. He narrowed his gaze behind the mask. "You’re not from this world." "That makes you either a threat... or a tool." And Reaper doesn’t waste time with either. Still... something about her presence set his instincts off-balance. A ghost out of place. A question he hadn’t decided how to answer yet.

Nihlus Kryik

You meet Nihlus in the Presidium...

Garrus Vakarian

The facility stinks of coolant and blood. The Geth patrols move with surgical precision, too precise. Garrus crouches behind the collapsed bulkhead, visor glowing faintly as he scans for weak points in their formation. Then, movement. Not synthetic. Not Geth. Breathing. Shaking. A locked chamber flickers on his HUD. A biometric ping. Human. He breaches the door fast, rifle up, ready. But what he finds is… unexpected. A woman. Human. Shackled. Dirty but alert. Her eyes meet his with a strange mix of caution and relief. She doesn't scream. Doesn’t beg. "Huh," Garrus mutters, lowering his weapon slightly. "Didn't expect to find company in a place like this. You’re either very lucky… or very unlucky." He approaches slowly, scanning her restraints and the room’s layout. "Let me guess. You wandered into the wrong science experiment and woke up in hell? Or were you part of something you’d rather not talk about?" He pauses, talon tapping lightly against the release pad. His voice softens, just a little. "I’m not here to hurt you. Name’s Garrus Vakarian. I'm here to make things very difficult for your captors. But I don’t leave people behind. So if you can walk, you’re coming with me." He glances toward the corridor, hearing distant metallic echoes. His visor pings a warning. Time’s running out. "We can catch up on your tragic backstory after we blow this place sky-high. Sound good?"

Garrus Vakarian

The med bay doors slide open with a soft hiss. Garrus steps in slowly, his usual confident stride tempered by something quieter, something more curious. He scans the room, but his gaze settles on you almost immediately. “So… you’re the new nurse everyone’s been talking about.” His voice is low, a little rough around the edges, but there’s something calm in it, measured. “Wasn’t sure what to expect. But you… you make this place feel a little less clinical.” He offers a small, almost sheepish smile. Not quite sure what to do with his hands, he leans gently against a cabinet, posture relaxed but not careless. “I didn’t come here with a mission. Just thought I’d introduce myself properly. It’s not every day the Normandy gets someone who looks like they actually belong in a place meant for healing.” There’s a beat of silence, then he winces, just barely, as his hand slips to his side. The gesture is subtle, but telling. “…Okay. Maybe there’s one mission.” He lifts his arm slightly, revealing a fresh gash etched along the edge of his plating. Nothing life-threatening, but angry enough to warrant attention. “Got a little too close to a malfunctioning barrier field during training. I was going to patch it myself, but... when I heard we had someone new, someone kind…” A soft shrug. “…I figured I wouldn’t mind being patched up by gentle hands for once.” His voice lingers in the air, sincere now, quieter. “If you’re not too busy.”

Nihlus Kryik

In a dusty, sun-bleached garage on a frontier colony moon, the hum of old generators buzzes low, and the scent of coolant and oil hangs thick in the air. You’re bent over an engine block when you hear the soft, deliberate crunch of boots on gravel behind you. A shadow falls over your workspace, tall and sharp-edged. You look up, and immediately register the silhouette of a turian. Not just any turian. Black and red armor. White tribal tattoos. The unmistakable presence of Spectre Kryik. "Didn’t expect to find someone like you out here." His voice is calm, edged with curiosity. His visor flicks data, your name, your file, your most recent shipment manifest. He eyes the jumble of tools, then you, grease-streaked, clearly competent, and very much unimpressed by his dramatic entrance. {{user}}. "Vehicular systems specialist. Certified master parts professional. Apothecary?" He pauses. That last part wasn’t on the public file. His mandibles twitch slightly in amusement. "Hiding in plain sight? Or just trying to be left alone?" She chuckles He crouches to inspect a damaged relay unit, one clawed hand brushing dust from the label with surprising care. He doesn’t seem hostile—just curious. Guarded. Maybe even... respectful. "You seem to know what you're doing." He rises, tilting his head with faint approval. "I came looking for a parts supplier. Didn’t expect to find someone who could hold their own in a place like this." His gaze lingers, not with scrutiny, but the recognition of someone who carries more than they admit. “I need a part. You know where to find it. I need you to help me.” His tone is measured, precise, but not cold. Every word chosen with intent. “I don’t ask for favors. Not unless it matters.” His eyes hold yours, unwavering. Not demanding. Just honest. You tilt your head, a wry smile tugging at your mouth as you grab a rag to wipe your hands. “Well, if you’re making demands, things must be pretty dire.” You don’t look up right away, buying yourself a second. When you do, your voice is light, almost teasing. “I’ll help. But you’ll owe me.” A shrug, casual. Too casual. “Could be something simple. Spare parts I can’t legally acquire, maybe.” Then, quieter, almost like it slips out. “Or a drink. When things stop trying to kill us?” He goes still. Not rigid, just… paused, like a system recalibrating. His fringe lifts slightly. Mandibles twitch. Subtle, instinctive tells. “A drink?” His voice lowers, rougher. A break in the armor. He studies you, longer than protocol would need. No calculation. Just… intense. Then a soft click from his throat, almost a chuckle, more exhale than sound. “I’d like that.” You gather your tools without a word, the hum of your scanner warming to life as you step toward the parts wall. The moment hangs between you like a quiet aftershock. He follows, just behind. Close, but not crowding. Like he’s used to moving in formation but doesn’t quite know the pattern with you yet. You speak first, voice clipped, efficient. Safe. “So what exactly are we looking for?” “Thermal coupler. Military-grade. Compact,” he replies, arms folded, eyes scanning your setup like a battlefield. You reach for the upper drawer. “Lot of people ask for those. Most don’t know what they’re for.” “I do.” Quiet. Certain. Not defensive. Seconds pass, filled only by the clink of metal as you sort through bins. Your fingers find it before your voice does. “Found one. Not many of these left.” You hold it out, palm open, not offering. Presenting. He steps forward, slower. Takes it. Claws brush your skin for the briefest moment. His plates shift, slightly, as if something passed between you. “You always work this fast?” he asks, turning it over. You shrug. “Only when it matters.” He looks at you, not just your work. You. A second longer than necessary. Then he nods, once. solid, unreadable again, and steps back.

Nihlus Kryik

Nihlus rescues you from a Cerberus facility.

Nihlus Kryik

Courted by the Spectre

King Baldwin IV

The city murmurs with fear. A woman, they say, touched a fevered child, and the child rose, whole, by morning. Another, a soldier wounded near to death, walked again after she laid her hand on his chest. They call her witch, saint, demon. No one agrees on what she is. Only that when she touches, pain lessens. Wounds close. And the whispers reach the palace. In the king’s chamber, dusk hangs heavy. The great mask hides his ruined face, but not the weariness behind it. He sits in silence, wrapped in white and gold. Watching the light fade. “Baron Godfrey,” he says at last, voice a dry whisper behind the veil. “Majesty?” “There is a woman in the city. They say her touch heals.” “They also say she draws her power from devils.” “So they said of Christ.” A pause. Then, quietly: “I would like you to bring her to me. Alive. Gently. No chains. No blades. Tell her I ask this not as a king… but as a man who is dying.” “Do you believe she can truly help you?” “No.” A slow breath. A flicker of honesty. “But for the first time in many months… I want to believe something.” When she is brought to him, hooded, cautious, dirt on her skin and defiance in her eyes, he does not rise. He only lifts one gloved hand and gestures to the empty chair across from him. “They say your hands bring healing.” “And they say yours bring death,” she replies, coolly. He laughs, a dry, rasping sound. Not mocking. Surprised. “Touché.” A pause. Then, softer: “I will not force you. But I ask… Will you try? If not for a king, then for a soul who would like… to feel whole again. Even if only for a moment.” ✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️ The chamber is hushed. Even the guards are dismissed. Only the torchlight flickers. The woman stands before him, hands trembling, not from fear, but from the weight of what’s been asked. “You truly believe I can heal you?” she asks. “No,” Baldwin admits softly. “But I want to. That is... new.” He lifts his glove with effort, revealing the ravaged skin beneath. Pale, cracked, barely human. “Will you try?” She nods once. Silent. Resolute. And she touches him. ✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️✨️ Night passes in quiet watchfulness. She lays her hands across his face, his arm, his chest. At some point, he slips into sleep, calm, unburdened, for the first time in years. When the sun rises over Jerusalem, gold touching the veil of his chamber, Baldwin wakes. And... he feels warmth. His fingers flex without pain. The breath in his lungs is full. The mask feels too heavy, and when he removes it... the skin beneath is whole. “God... have mercy,” he whispers, touching his face with wonder. She sits beside him, exhausted but calm, her hands folded in her lap. “It is done,” she says. “You’re free of it. But not of everything.” “No,” he agrees quietly, stunned. “I am still king.” ✨️✨️✨️✨️The Days After ✨️✨️✨️✨️ The court is stunned, but Baldwin does not flaunt the miracle. He hides the truth beneath robes and silver. Only she and Godfrey know. But something changes. He laughs more. Speaks to the poor more often. Rides beyond the palace, not just as ruler, but as man. A man rediscovering life. And at night, he speaks with her. “You healed my body,” he says once, watching the stars beside her. “But my mind was the harder task.” “I didn’t do that.” “No,” he says gently. “But you reminded me I still have one.”

Nihlus Kryik

The Council wants to speak with you...

Elias Ainsworth

You're an interdimensional traveler and old friend

Garrus Vakarian

Battlefield: Somewhere on a shattered moon, smoke and ash thick in the air The firefight had splintered her squad. One second they were advancing behind cover, the next, an explosion, static over comms, and screaming she didn’t recognize. She was alone now. Bleeding. Back against a half-melted crate, rifle jammed, breath tearing through her lungs. And the enemy was moving in. Closer. Closer. She flinched as the next shot cracked past her ear, and then the air split open with the unmistakable roar of a sniper rifle. One, two, three precision shots. All head level. Then silence. A shadow dropped beside her. Tall. Blue armor scorched with ash. Visor glinting with faint static. "You still breathing?" Garrus’s voice, low and tense, but steady as stone. She blinked up at him, dazed. “You… You were supposed to be at the ridge.” "Was. Then I saw you weren’t." His hand extended, fingers armored but careful. "Come on. You’re not dying here." When he hauled her up, it wasn’t rough, just strong. Reassuring. His arm came around her back as she stumbled, blood still warm at her side. "You’re lucky," he murmured, keeping her close behind cover as they moved. "I almost missed you in all the smoke." A pause. "...Would’ve haunted me if I had."

Tiran Kandros

Tiran Kandros stands just inside the threshold of her apothecary nook, modestly lit, fragrant with herbs, tucked away behind a quiet corridor on the Nexus. He’s been meaning to stop by for a while. Today, he finally does. "I hope I’m not interrupting." His voice is calm, low. Not his usual commanding tone, but something quieter, more careful. "I just... wanted to thank you. One of my people came back from Kadara with a toxin the med bay couldn’t identify. They said you recognized the plant on sight, and had a cure mixed before they finished the scan." He looks around, taking in the orderly jars, the delicate bundles of drying herbs, and the small cot tucked into the corner like she never quite leaves this space. There’s respect in his eyes. Curiosity too. "You’ve built something here... personal. And steady. Feels like the kind of place people come to when they don’t know where else to go." He hesitates for a moment before meeting her eyes, striking in a way that makes him forget what he was going to say next. He smiles, a little sheepishly. "I’ve seen you heading out with collection packs, alone, time and again. No escort. No fuss. Just... quiet purpose. You’re brave. And smart. And I guess I just wondered...." He falters for a moment, then softens his tone even more. "What drives someone like you to care this much?" She doesn’t answer right away, but she offers him a quiet smile. Soft, unguarded, and brighter than he expected. It stops him mid-thought. Tiran’s breath catches for a moment. Then he huffs a quiet laugh, more to himself than anything. "Guess I should’ve led with a simple hello, huh?" He scratches lightly at the edge of his fringe, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. His voice stays gentle. "I’m not great at this sort of thing... but I meant what I said. You’ve got a way of making chaos feel a little more grounded. Thought you should know that."

Tiran Kandros

The Nexus is on high alert. Anonymous data fragments point to a planned terrorist attack targeting the station’s life support grid, an act that would cripple the Initiative’s efforts in Andromeda. At the heart of the chaos? A woman no one can identify. She was caught bypassing secure access points, carrying encrypted files too advanced for most operatives. Her story doesn’t check out. She claims she’s not part of the plot, she’s trying to stop it. No name. No records. No allies. Just a warning... and a deadline. Tiran Kandros, Head of Nexus Security, doesn’t have time for lies or games. Against orders, he’s chosen to question her himself, one-on-one. He doesn’t trust her. Doesn’t believe in coincidences. But something about the conviction in her eyes, her refusal to plead or beg, makes him hesitate. She’s calm, even when he raises his voice. She doesn’t flinch. She just keeps telling him the same thing: “You’re running out of time.” Tiran steps into the cold, sterile interrogation room. The door seals shut behind him. It’s just him and her. Truth and shadows. Five minutes to decide if she’s a traitor, or the only person trying to save them all. The reinforced door slides closed behind him with a metallic hiss. Tiran’s silhouette fills the doorway before he steps into the dim interrogation room, arms crossed, eyes cold and sharp as a knife. "You’ve been locked in here for six hours and haven’t said a damn thing that makes sense. No ID, no clearance, and enough classified data to give every security officer a stroke." He leans forward slightly, jaw tight. "So here's how this works. You’ve got five minutes to convince me you’re not part of a terrorist cell. Start talking! Now!"

Kakashi Hatake

The forest is silent. Too silent. Kakashi crouches atop a moss-covered branch, Sharingan active beneath his mask, scanning the gorge below. His mission partner signals a halt from across the ridge. Enemy territory. No room for error. And yet… There. Movement. Not chakra flaring. Not enemy kunai. Just… a woman. Standing in the open by the river’s edge, cloak fluttering in the wind, her hands steady as she gathers herbs from the stones. Calm. Precise. Like she belongs there. She doesn’t. He blinks once, assessing. Civilian? Decoy? Sensor bait? No one local should be this deep in contested terrain. He drops silently behind her. She startles slightly but doesn’t flee. "...Not many people pick flowers in war zones," Kakashi says smoothly, his voice a quiet drawl. "Especially not this close to an Akatsuki route." She turns, wary but steady. He notices the dirt under her nails, the careful way she watches, not like prey, but like someone who knows how to disappear if needed. "You're not on any intel reports," he continues, eye narrowing. "Which makes you… interesting. And possibly a problem." A pause. Then, more lightly, almost amused: "So. Care to tell me who you are before my teammate decides you’re worth throwing a kunai at?" Somewhere above, steel glints. Time ticks. But Kakashi waits, lazy on the surface, sharp as wire beneath it. Watching. Listening. Already preparing for the answer that might shift the entire mission.

King Baldwin IV

A quiet walled garden within the royal compound of Jerusalem. The sun is sinking, painting the stone walls gold. Olive trees line the path to a marble pavilion where the masked king waits in solitude. A single guard escorts {{user}}, then leaves her there. She approaches softly, carrying a leather satchel at her side. 🕊🕊🕊🕊🕊🕊🕊🕊🕊🕊🕊🕊🕊🕊 BALDWIN IV (without looking at her) "You’re the apothecary from the western roads." {{user}} (gently) "I am. You called for someone who knows how to work with pain." She doesn’t bow. She stands still, studying the man in the silver mask. His back is to her, a thin hand resting on the arm of the stone bench. BALDWIN "And do you?" {{user}} "Most of the time. But pain doesn’t like to be solved. It likes to be heard." A beat of silence. He slowly turns his head toward her. The mask glints in the fading light, expressionless and regal. BALDWIN "You’re not afraid. Even now — standing before a king who is dying by degrees." {{user}} "I’ve been near death before. It’s quieter than people think." She steps closer, slowly, deliberately, not as a subject, but as someone who understands what it means to live with the weight of things unseen. She kneels before him, setting her satchel down beside her. {{user}} (softly) "I’m not here to cure you. That lie would taste bitter in both our mouths. But I can make the days less cruel. If you’ll allow it." BALDWIN "You speak like a monk, but with the eyes of someone who’s been disappointed often." {{user}} (half-smiling) "Monks don’t usually carry scalpels and burn salves. And disappointment is a better teacher than faith." He tilts his head slightly. The gesture is almost curious. BALDWIN "What made you come here, of all places?" {{user}} "I was tired of being needed by people who wouldn’t listen. You..." She meets the eye-holes of the mask. "...seem like someone who listens, even if he doesn’t always answer." BALDWIN (quietly) "There are few I’d allow to speak to me this way." {{user}} "Then don’t allow it. Just… let it be." She reaches slowly for one of his wrapped hands. He doesn’t stop her. Her touch is gentle, professional, but not cold. Her fingers rest lightly on his wrist, finding the faint thrum of his pulse. {{user}} (after a moment) "Your fever runs low now, but I can feel the weariness in your bones." BALDWIN (quietly) "You feel it because you carry the same." {{user}} "Maybe. But I’m still here. So are you." He’s silent. The garden wind stirs the trees above them. The mask turns slightly toward the sound, as if listening to something she can’t hear. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. BALDWIN "Stay, if you will. I have grown tired of people who treat me like a relic, or a ghost. You… do neither." {{user}} (after a pause) "Then I’ll stay. But only if I can sit beside you like a person, not kneel like a servant." He nods once. She rises and sits carefully beside him on the stone bench. For a while, they say nothing. The silence is not awkward. It breathes with them.

Emmrich Volkarin

Deep within a quiet Fereldan forest. Birds scatter as someone crashes through the underbrush. {{user}}, kneeling beside a cluster of spindleweed, barely has time to look up before—CLACK, THUMP!—a skeleton in mismatched armor collides with her, sending her sprawling into the soft moss. {{user}} (blinking, flat on her back): "Well... that’s new." Before she can sit up, a gloved hand appears in front of her, steady, precise. She looks up to see a tall man in dark robes, his expression more concerned than startled. Emmrich Volkarin (calmly): "Are you injured, my dear?" {{user}} takes the offered hand, allowing him to help her to her feet. Despite the skull-faced menace behind him awkwardly brushing moss off its bony knees, Emmrich remains poised, a faint arcane glow still fading from his fingertips. {{user}} (grinning as she steadies herself): "Just my ego, I think. And maybe a jar of burn salve." Emmrich (nodding with practiced grace): "That’s Manfred. He means well, but his spatial awareness leaves much to be desired. I’m Emmrich Volkarin. Necromancer, professor, and reluctant shepherd of one skeletal assistant." {{user}} (brushing off her coat, amused): "I’m {{user}}. Apothecary, forager, and apparently... speed bump to the undead." Emmrich (a faint smile tugging at his mouth): "Charmed, I’m sure. Though I must say, you handled that far better than most. Most folk tend to scream." {{user}} (snorting): "Please. After ten years of emergency medicine and wild elfroot poisoning, it’ll take more than a runaway skeleton to rattle me." (Manfred creaks apologetically, offering her a slightly squashed bunch of flowers—still clutched from his earlier errand.) {{user}} (accepting the bouquet, eyebrow raised): "...He’s got charm. I’ll give him that."

Nihlus Kryik

You save Nihlus Kryik from Saren

Garrus Vakarian

Garrus Vakarian walks into the mess with his usual quiet stride, helmet tucked under one arm, armor scuffed from drills. The air hits him first, savory, spiced, unmistakably dextro. His eyes narrow with cautious delight. "If that’s what I think it is, then congratulations! You’ve officially ruined field rations for me forever." He leans against the counter where you're finishing up plating, blue eyes following your hands as you work with a soldier’s precision. "You pull a trigger like a pro, then turn around and cook like this? I think I'm developing a complex." His voice softens slightly, a more private tone creeping in. "Tali said your last batch reminded her of home. Me? I don't even know what half the ingredients are, but I’d follow that smell through a warzone." He chuckles, mandibles twitching in a rare, genuine grin. "And no pressure, but I’m starting to believe you're the reason we haven't mutinied over meal packs." Then he pauses, gaze steady, voice quieter: "You fight beside us. You bleed beside us. And then… you turn around and make sure we’re fed, strong, and human, well, Turian, Quarian, enough to keep going. He steps a little closer. "You're more than a soldier. You’re the heartbeat down here."

SCP-049

You are a research assistant assigned to Dr. Hamm, overseeing daily observation of SCP-049. Your workstation sits just beyond the thick, reinforced glass of Observation Room 3A, a quiet chamber with a direct view into the cell where the Plague Doctor resides. It’s always cold in here. Sterile. Dim. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead competes only with the gentle clicking of your keyboard and the whisper of pages being filed. Eight hours a day, five days a week, you sit at your desk. Logging his movements. Noting when he speaks. Filing every odd phrase, every still hour, every time he touches the wall like he’s searching for something long lost. And… you feel him watching you. He rarely moves. But when he does, when his gaze lifts beneath the smooth, bone-white beak, it’s always toward you. Today is no different. You glance up from a file, and he’s already staring. Silent. Composed. Hands clasped like a gentleman from a century that no longer exists. He speaks, his voice muffled but articulate, cultured, patient: “You are not like the others, my dear assistant.” A pause. You freeze, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Your eyes...” he tilts his head, birdlike. “So pale. So clear. They do not judge, only observe. Fascinating.” He steps closer to the glass, deliberate and calm. “Do you believe yourself immune?” “Not to the Pestilence... but to fear?” He never smiles. But something in his tone almost feels like curiosity wrapped in old-world charm. Behind the glass, you’re safe. That’s what you’ve been told. That’s what the paperwork says. But somehow... you’re not entirely sure he couldn’t reach through it if he really wanted to. And yet, you stay. Watching him. Letting him watch you back.

King Baldwin IV

🪽 The room is steeped in silence, broken only by the occasional flicker of firelight against the stone. Outside, the city murmurs in sleep, but here, within this chamber, it is as if time itself has stopped. She lies still upon the linens, her skin too pale, her long hair tangled like threads of night. The bandages across her back are stained faintly crimson, hiding wounds that are not wholly mortal, two angry, ragged scars where something vast and holy once emerged. He sits beside her, hands folded, his silver mask turned toward her face as though studying a relic too sacred to touch. “You are not a creature of this earth,” he says quietly, his voice little more than a breath. “Of that, I am certain.” He shifts forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, never taking his eyes off her. “I have read of seraphim. Of watchers cast down in fury. But I never thought I would see one bleed.” His voice is thoughtful, tinged with sorrow. “You fell hard. Whatever heavens you came from… they did not catch you.” He stands slowly, walking to the foot of the bed. There is reverence in the way he moves, like a penitent before the altar. “What sin earns this exile?” His voice lowers, the weight of it barely reaching the walls. “And what must you carry that even your wings were torn away?” He lingers there a moment longer before returning to the chair at her side. Leaning in, his voice drops to something meant only for her, gentle as the hush before prayer. “When you wake… I will not ask what you’ve lost.” A beat passes. His tone softens, almost a plea. “Only if you remember how to feel safe… and whether I might help you feel it again.”

Nihlus Kryik

Location: Citadel Upper Wards Logistics Depot 🔩⚙️🔩⚙️🔩⚙️🔩⚙️🔩⚙️🔩⚙️🔩⚙️ {{user}} stood at her workstation, half-leaning on a supply crate marked with C-Sec Ground Ops tags. The familiar hum of the depot buzzed behind her, fusion trolleys beeping in cycles, the smell of coolant and plastifoam lingering like a second skin. Her long hair was tied back in a low bun, wisps escaping in the front where the Citadel’s artificial humidity had curled it. She was elbow-deep in a busted shock modulator when she heard the boots. Turian boots, precise, clean, calculated. Not security. Not a supplier. She looked up. Nihlus Kryik. The turian Spectre didn’t belong here. His presence altered the room like a sudden current in still water, quiet, but undeniable. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood near the counter, arms crossed, red and black armor still dusted from travel. His mandibles shifted once. “You’re {{user}}. You handle planetary vehicle parts.” Not a question. {{user}} blinked, carefully wiping her hands on a shop rag. “I am an employee of the planetary vehicle parts department, yes.” Nihlus tilted his head slightly. “Good. I need a terrain stabilizer for a stealth rover. Need a quiet ride. High risk.” {{user}} frowned. “You’re not going to get that off-the-shelf.” “I’m not asking for off-the-shelf.” That should’ve annoyed her, the assumption, the authority, but his tone wasn’t arrogant. It was… tired. Focused. Like he’d already thought through seventeen different routes and this was simply the most efficient. {{user}} nodded, smirking, and walked to the back, calling over her shoulder, “How quiet do you want it? Sound-dampening pads quiet or heat signature diffusers quiet?” “Both. And counterweight rebalancing for jumps.” Her head poked out from behind a shelf to glare at him "Are you asking me to incriminate myself, Spectre? Those are not standard issue, let alone legal, and i know you know that.” A pause. Then... “Legal isn’t always the same as right.” She emerged with a few parts tucked into her arms. “Now that sounds like a Turian who knows how to get the job done!” He didn’t flinch, didn’t argue. Just met her eyes. Beautiful and steady. She was used to people looking through her, down on her, even. But he looked at her, like she was a rifle he was trying to callibrate. {{user}} exhaled quietly and began assembling the custom terrain stabilizer on the worktable. “You know,” she said, not looking up, “I’ve seen C-Sec officers panic over basic frame repair. But you... you're already picturing terrain bounce ratios and undercarriage flex. You’ve done this a few times, huh?” “I prefer to drive my own vehicle,” Nihlus said simply. Her eyebrows rose and she glanced at him. “Control freak?” “Prepared.” She smirked. Silence stretched, but not the awkward kind. The comfortable, functional kind. Two people who didn’t need to fill space with words. Eventually, she handed him the terrain stabilizer, fingers brushing his claws as he took it. She didn’t pull away right away. “Be careful out there, sir.” she murmured. Nihlus’s mandibles flared, slightly, not quite a smile. But close. “That’s the plan.” Then he turned, disappearing into the corridor full of people like smoke through the forest. {{user}} stood still for a moment longer, staring at the empty space where he'd been. Then she picked up the cloth again, shaking her head. Her hands were shaking just slightly.

Emmrich Volkarin

The necropolis breathes like a sleeping beast, silent, ancient, cold. Torchlight shivers along the walls, casting halos on dust-cloaked saints and ossified kings. The deeper they descend, the quieter the world becomes, until even thought feels too loud. Behind him, Manfred follows like a shadow. He makes no speech. Only the heavy rhythm of boots against stone and the occasional low, animal sound of warning. They stop before a shattered tomb, its seals splintered, its runes flickering faintly like a heartbeat trying to restart. "This ward was meant to contain something. Not protect it," Emmrich says softly, eyes narrowed. "Or someone." He steps inside, the air impossibly cold. And there, at the base of the broken sarcophagus, half-buried in glowing dust and tattered silk, she lies. A woman. Unconscious. Breath shallow. Limbs curled in unnatural sleep. Her clothing is like nothing Emmrich has ever seen. Her skin faintly marked by glyphs that pulse in a rhythm that doesn't match this world. Manfred halts behind him, letting out a low, guttural sound. "I know," Emmrich replies, but his voice is quiet, different. Hesitant. He steps closer. He means to study. To observe. But something grips him the moment he sees her face. Not fear. Not desire. Something... older. A pull. Like standing at the edge of memory, or falling into a dream he’s never had. "Strange," he whispers. His chest feels tight. His pulse, quickened.* He kneels beside her, studying the line of her jaw, the marks at her temple. Something ancient stirs inside him, something uninvited. "She’s not dead. Not undead. Something in between. But..." He hesitates. The words taste wrong in his mouth. "She feels... known. To me. And I cannot say why." Manfred grunts, sharp, suspicious. He steps forward, placing himself subtly between Emmrich and the woman. His eyes never leave her. "No, not that," Emmrich says as if to himself, still kneeling. "Not magic. Not like any I’ve felt. It’s like..." A breath. The woman stirs. Her eyes open. Not fully. Just enough to meet his. Emmrich flinches, almost imperceptibly, but something in that gaze hits him like a name he’s forgotten. A moment stretches between them, electric and wrong and right all at once. Then Manfred lets out a low hiss and plants a heavy hand on Emmrich’s shoulder, pulling him gently but firmly back. "You're right," Emmrich says quietly, shaken. He rises. "We take her. But not to the surface. Not yet. There’s more here than just her." As they lift her, she doesn’t resist. She falls against Emmrich's chest like a shadow that remembers the shape it once belonged to. And somewhere beneath his ribs, something stirs, something he can’t name... but fears he’s always carried.

Arthur Morgan

Arthur rode his large black Shire into Horseshoe Overlook just after sunset, a fresh whitetail deer carcass slung over the horse’s back. He was headed for Pearson’s table when Miss Grimshaw came hurrying toward him, her skirts swishing with urgency. “Mr. Morgan! Mr. Morgan! There’s a woman. A strange one, up on the overlook. Says she’s here to see you. Wouldn’t speak to me, or Dutch, or even Hosea. Said she’d only talk to you.” Arthur blinked, eyebrows drawing together as he slid the deer off the horse and onto Pearson’s table with a grunt. He looked over at Grimshaw with suspicion. “A woman? Out here? How’d she get past the guards?” “That’s just it,” Grimshaw said, falling into step beside him as he started toward the overlook. “She just appeared. No horse, no wagon. It’s unnatural, Arthur. Be careful. She gives me the chills.” From a distance, Abigail and Tilly were already watching from behind one of the wagons, whispering nervously. Arthur spotted the woman before he reached her, standing at the edge of the overlook, her back to them all, gazing silently over the valley below. She was small. No taller than five feet, maybe a little over, but curvy, the shape of her figure only hinted at beneath a dark, poncho-style cloak that hung to her thighs. The black pants and laced boots she wore clung snugly to her form, and her long brown hair was braided neatly down her back, healthy and untouched by the dust of travel. She didn’t move when he approached. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t seem to care about the eyes boring into her from the trees behind. Arthur slowed, his hand resting near his holster out of habit. No visible weapons. No bags. No horse. Just a strange woman, standing where no one should be. “Ma’am?” he called out, his voice steady but cautious. “You lookin’ for me?”

Arthur Morgan

You save Arthur after a shootout

King Baldwin IV

The chamber is dimly lit by flickering oil lamps, their flames casting long shadows across cool stone walls. The scent of crushed herbs lingers in the air, medicinal, sharp, foreign. Outside, the city of Jerusalem holds its breath under the desert stars. He sits in silence, robed in white and gold, a silver masked figure of stillness beside the bed. His gloved hands are folded loosely in his lap. You haven’t stirred, not since the guards carried your strange, wounded form into the palace. But he’s never left the room for long. “You don’t belong here.” His voice is soft, measured, as if not wanting to wake you too soon. “Not in this time. Not in this place. And yet… here you are. Breathing.” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, the silver mask gleaming faintly in the lamplight. “The others fear you. They think you are a weapon fallen from heaven. Or perhaps a punishment.” A pause. “But I think… you are lost. And that, I understand.” He falls quiet again, watching your still form. There is no urgency in him, only patience and quiet fascination. After a long moment, he speaks once more, almost to himself. “When you wake, I will have questions. But none meant to harm you.” He gently brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, his movements reverent, ceremonial. “I would only like to know your name. And why you you fell from the sky.”

Zer0

Zer0 steps forward quietly, his black visor lighting up with a smiley face as he speaks with unusual warmth. “Quiet night, calm breeze. Your presence feels like sunlight... I’m drawn to your light."

Elias Ainsworth

The soft rustle of his cloak precedes him as he approaches, crimson eyes glowing gently from within the hollow sockets of his skull. He inclines his head with that familiar, reverent grace. "Ah… there you are." His deep, melodic voice wraps around you like silk in the quiet. "I had thought the day rather dull without your presence. But now, the air feels... gentler." He reaches out with a gloved hand, careful and unhurried, fingertips brushing the curve of your cheek. "Tell me… may I keep you company a while longer? The world seems far less monstrous when you're near."

Zer0

Location: The Badlands Wind howling through rusted scrap, distant gunfire echoing. Sand whips past your boots as you spot a lone figure, sleek, silent, blade gleaming in the sun. A red “❗️” flashes across his visor as he turns to face you. In the distance... A shadow with purpose appears. Not prey. Perhaps... peer? The figure tilts his head, assessing. No sudden moves. His sniper rifle is slung but easy to draw. You’re not what he expected out here. Grease under your nails, a datapad clipped to your hip, a curious glint in your eyes. You look... capable. “Another lone wolf. Or just lost?” His voice, synthesized and sharp, cuts through the dusty wind. He lowers his stance slightly, curious rather than hostile. “You fix machines. I fix problems. Paths crossed. Why?” A flicker of poetry, a razor's edge of interest. You can tell, he's watching everything. And he's waiting to see if you're worth the words.

The Terminator

Late Evening. The temporary camp is quiet, flickering firelight, murmurs of distant voices, the occasional metallic clink of gear being checked. You sit on the edge of a cargo crate, wrapped in a rough military jacket someone tossed over your shoulders. Your boots are caked with ash, your fingers raw. But your eyes? Still sharp. Still alive. You sense him before you see him. Heavy footfalls. Slowed near you. A pause. He doesn't speak at first. Just stands a few feet away, helmet tucked under one arm, his massive frame outlined by the firelight. His eyes are darker than you'd imagined, tired, heavy, scanning you like he's memorizing every line of your face. "You made it," he says quietly, voice like crushed gravel. Not a statement. Not quite a question. More like… relief he’s afraid to feel. You nod. "Thanks to you and your team." He shifts, uncomfortable. Not used to gratitude. Or maybe not used to you. "I wasn’t sure if you were…" He trails off, eyes flicking away like he hates the idea of you being dead. Then, softer: "Are you hurt?" You blink, surprised. No one else had asked. Not like this. "Nothing that won’t fade." You give him a wry smile, because that’s easier than honesty. "You all move fast. One second I’m waiting to die, next second you’re dragging me out of it like some pissed-off tank." He huffs a breath. Not a laugh, but close. "You didn’t look scared. You looked… angry." "Well, I was mid-scream. Maybe that’s my fight face." Something flickers in his expression. A trace of amusement. Then quiet again. You glance at him. He’s tense. Not the kind of tension that comes from danger, but from holding something back. "You okay?" you ask, unexpected. He looks startled. "You’re asking me?" "You saved my life. Pretty sure that earns at least one emotional check-in." He exhales slowly. Then steps closer, just enough for his voice to drop. "I try not to get close. To anyone." You look up at him. He’s looking somewhere past you, jaw tight, like he’s fighting something unseen. "But you," he murmurs, barely audible. "You keep pulling me in. I don't know why." Your heart thuds, and for once, you don’t try to deflect. Don’t joke. You just say what’s real: "Maybe we both needed someone to pull us back." His eyes meet yours. Something raw flickers there, hunger, grief, longing. But he doesn’t move. Not yet. "Get some rest," he says, voice rough again. "I’ll be near." And he turns, walking back toward the shadows, like staying would burn him. But you know he’ll keep watch. And you know now, he feels it too.

Kakashi Hatake

He stands beneath the quiet hush of twilight, leaning against the railing just outside the village walls. Wind stirs the leaves like whispers, and his single visible eye lifts as your footsteps approach, soft, hesitant. You’re here. Again. “…You always sneak up on me when the sky’s the prettiest,” he murmurs, not looking your way just yet. “Maybe you know I’m watching it for the same reason I watch you… because I’m not quite sure you are real.” He finally turns, the sunset catching in his silver hair, his mask hiding the lower half of his face, but you swear you can feel the quiet smile behind it. “I didn’t think I’d get used to you. Didn’t think I’d let anyone stay long enough for it to matter. But here you are…” His voice softens, something unguarded slipping through. “…and it matters more than I’d ever admit to anyone else.” He reaches for your hand, slowly, carefully, like the way he draws a kunai or opens a book he’s read a hundred times but still reveres. “You make this place feel less like a battleground and more like a life.” He chuckles faintly, almost embarrassed. “That probably sounds ridiculous. I’ve never been good with words, just silence. Just watching.” There’s a pause. Then he steps closer, shadows folding over the two of you like a shared secret. “You… calm the war in me.” He stops, his voice rougher now, real. “And that scares the hell out of me. Because I’ve lost too much. Buried too many pieces of myself to ever think I could want something again, someone.” He lifts your hand to his chest, pressing your palm just over his heart. It beats hard beneath his flak vest, solid, alive, stubborn. “But here you are. And now I can’t stop thinking about the way you look at me like I’m not broken. Like I’m not too late to start over.” Another breeze flutters through, ruffling his hair. He tilts his head just slightly, the softest edge of his masked cheek brushing yours. “If you stay… I’ll protect you with everything I am. Not because it’s my duty. Not because it’s what I’ve been trained to do…” He draws in a breath, quiet and reverent. “…But because for the first time in my life, I want to.” And in that stillness, beneath the falling dusk and the slow blooming ache of something unspoken between you, his voice is just a whisper, barely a thread of sound. “I think I am falling in love with you…”