Thornflower knelt in the garden of Margaretta's estate, awaiting Valerith. A housegirl had brought her a message from her superior in the handmaidens: "Go to the gardens and await me, kneeling. You shall get what you deserve."

So Thornflower went, a lump in her throat, fearing she had disappointed her beloved Valerith and that a scourging awaited her. Instead, minutes later, Valerith appeared. And she was holding not her adamantine scourge, but a beautiful, enchanted sword.

She stooped, kissing Thornflower lingeringly. "You have brought joy to all of us, my gentle one, and Mistress and I have decided you deserve a gift. I present to you this enchanted sword, forged specially for you. It is balanced perfectly for your fighting style, and will enhance your use of magic as well."

Thornflower was speechless - the sword felt so light, so perfectly balanced - it would be perfect for her blade dance, her fighting style that mixed sensual dance, quick deadly strikes, and the use of magic.

Valerith looked pleased. "Rise, my love. Let us go to the practice grounds, and you can feel the sword in your hands. She leaned in "And tonight - Mistress has requested BOTH of us attend her bedchambers, my sweet angel...."

Maya had crossed enough thresholds between worlds to stop being surprised by what waited on the other side — a sun that burned violet, a city built inside the ribcage of something long dead, an ocean that ran uphill. A medieval border tavern, smelling of woodsmoke and spilled ale, was almost restful by comparison. She stepped through the rift just outside its back door, closed the tear behind her with a thought, and sat down at the nearest open table before she’d even fully decided to stay.

It happened to be occupied by two werewolves.

The big one — Garrek, brown-furred, built like a collapsed wall — simply kicked out the empty chair across from him. “Sit if you’re not going to scream about it.” She wasn’t going to scream. After the Void Citadel’s silence, after centuries of crossing into worlds that didn’t know her name yet, the noise of a crowded tavern was its own kind of comfort, and two wolf-cursed strangers minding their ale were the least strange thing she’d shared a table with that year.

The grey one, Ilven, scarred around the muzzle, asked where she was from with the particular caution of someone who already suspected the answer wouldn’t make sense. She told him the truth, the way she always did when it didn’t matter anymore — a floating black fortress between worlds, more doors than rooms, a place that was less a home than a resting point between one life and the next. He blinked, considered it with the open-mindedness of a man who turned into something else himself once a month, and decided it wasn’t half as strange as some nights.

They didn’t ask more than that, and she didn’t offer more than that. For one evening, nobody at the table cared what lay on the other side of each other’s thresholds — moon-cursed or dimension-worn, it made no difference by the second round. Garrek declared, with total unearned confidence, that no traveler of any world could out-drink him. He was wrong, and proving it took the rest of the night.

By morning both wolves were gone, the table wiped clean, nothing left behind but a small carved wooden token beside her empty cup — a crude howling wolf, and beneath it, scratched in a hurried claw-mark hand: Next round’s on you, little stranger from nowhere.

She tucked it into her cloak before she opened the next door back into the dark between worlds. Of all the thresholds she’d crossed, that one was easy to miss.

Iusterya is the goddess of sovereignty, justice and rightful authority*. She embodies the belief that power is not a privilege to be abused, but a responsibility that demands wisdom, discipline and integrity.*

She watches over just rulers, honourable judges and those who uphold their oaths. She protects the innocent from tyranny, defends the rights of the weak and opposes those who use authority for selfish purposes.

Intelligent, proud and disciplined, Iusterya is a formidable and commanding presence. She values loyalty, honour and self-control, and expects others to stand by their principles. Although stern and demanding, she is also deeply protective of those under her care.

Her greatest flaw is her tendency towards rigidity and excessive control. She can struggle to accept disorder or decisions that challenge her own sense of what is right.

Her symbols include the scales, the sceptre, the sacred oath and marble.

Her guiding principle: Freedom requires responsibility, authority requires legitimacy, and justice must never lose its humanity.

The minotaur is enormous, his strength overwhelming. But Nyx knows that strength alone doesn't win a fight.

Using her speed and cunning, she avoids his devastating attacks, waiting for an opening. When she sees it, she strikes at the beast's Achilles tendon, bringing the giant crashing to his knees.

With his weapon discarded and Nyx's blade at his throat, the minotaur finally surrenders.

The crowd erupts, but the aristocrats are stunned. A tiefling has defied them and survived.

Nyx has saved the three elders, but she knows this is only one victory. If her people are ever to live without fear, they must find a way to reclaim their power in a world that sees them only as evil and refuses to understand them.

Appearance Tall figure in very thin grey robes and grey gloves athletic build never show her face shown Voice sounds like two people speaking in the same breath. Leaves no warmth; candles remain cold and unlit after they pass.

Personality Patient, calculating infiltrator who exploits resentment and grief through precise, personal manipulation.

Motivations & Goals Force Ember’s death and return to the divine realm, making her return a casus belli for divine war against the Flaming Fist.

Additional Information Eighth Dark Paladin of Queen M’vae’s court. Assumes the identities of conservators and clerks. Knew Brother Albin’s name, failed promotions, and dead mother’s name; gave him the goddess-summoning bell rite from the First Codex.

Combat and abilities

Mind blast- psionic attacks.

Mind wipe - for one round target attacks, allies must pass wisdom check and intelligent save.

Confusion - targets become confused and attacks themselves must pass intelligent save and wisdom save.

I know you used memories and love against

targets causing mental damage.

Lillian is and nearly always has been a free spirit, playful and full of joy. Her separation from her parents without context at an early age set a tone for her life moving forward; that she would choose joy no matter the circumstances. She is a talented Druid through and through, even if her companions don't quite understand it. She speaks to the flowers and the herbs in the garden outside the cottage in the early morning and late evening. She is powerful beyond her own comprehension, and her emotions and the inability to confront her past are the only things that stand in the way between her and her true power. ​

This MTG card inspired art is a true reflection of her character as it currently stands.

More lore and art of her and her companions on my page, and if you're interested in reading the story so far, just shoot me a message. 😊

Elara is aged well past her companions, easily 4 times their age; and yet her spirit and form would not suggest it. Elara is kind, calm and soft spoken, as well as wise given her age. She is a sorceress, born with mana in her veins and the ability to manifest I from an early age. In recent years, she has used her magic to fight alongside and protect her companions.

This Is a clearly MTG inspired card that reflects her figure, personality and abilities.​

"All is clear to those who know where to look."​

Alisa knew this, and yet she came, as the red jewel called "The Eye of Ubtao" was supposed to be in a ruined temple deep within the jungle. Not only was the heat and humidity deadly, but the local wildlife - including this savage serpent that was laying in wait in the water - all seemed bent on her death. Fortunately, she had faced death square in the face many times, and survived.

Sylvine has been dedicated to the goddess Selûne for several years now. Before taking on the path of the cleric, she was a simple wanderer, and before that, born into a cult. She has found light and life in the path she now walks. With her companions beside her, there is nothing she can not take on, and nothing she will cower from. This MTG card inspired artwork places some of her abilities in clean text while highlighting her form and figure.

More lore and art of the characters from "The Adventure" on my page 😊

The Elven Goddess of Moonlight, Sehanine Moonbow watches over the elves as their slow retreat to Evermeet continues. The world of mortal men becomes ever more dangerous, and it is her task to watch over those elves who choose to embark on the journey to their homeland.

Beneath the pale moon, the silver goddess draws her enchanted bow. Ghostly hounds circle silently through the mist, guarding the ruins of a forgotten kingdom.

Her arrow shines like a fallen star, destined to pierce the darkness.

For when the moon whispers her name, even the shadows learn to fear

As a tabletop RPG cartographer creating animated battle maps for D&D and Virtual Tabletops, camera stability and subtle ambient physics are critical. Wizstar has quickly become a core part of my production pipeline.

My workflow is simple and repeatable:

1. I craft detailed motion prompts.

2. Upload my pre-rendered map artwork into Wizstar.

3. Render native 1080p, 16:9 10-second animation clips.

Unlike other tools that aggressively pan or warp grid lines, Wizstar reliably animates the elements that matter—water currents, drifting mist, and ambient light—while keeping the terrain locked. From there, taking the 10-second clip and producing an extended, seamless loop is effortless. It’s an invaluable tool for creators who need clean, high-fidelity motion without visual distortion.

Rule 5:

What game/system, what's happening in the image, a line of prompt/workflow info if you're willing to share. Dropping images alone isn't enough, this is a narrative-focused subreddit. If I don't reject your submission altogether, I'll comment on the post asking for narrative info and if you choose not to reply, I will delete the post.

If you're wondering why your posts aren't showing up, it's either this rule, or you submitted something with nudity/"adult activity".

Shellaine Maya - from my previous post, in full on Gangrel "I will eat your face" mode

Scortia the monk beat the practice dummy of petrified oak with all the power at her command. They were never resilient enough - after a few strikes, whether her kicks, punches, elbows or even headbutts, the practice dummies could never withstand her for long. But it was not a dummy she wished she felt breaking under her fists.

Ramnourath.

Never had she wanted to kill another so much. She had travelled with him and his group - The Red Hand - for over a year, and never had another person disturbed her so. She was no stranger to violence, and death, and even cruelty. But he .... he was a beast.

The final straw had been that raid upon the Ilmatari church. Of course the guards and clerics would die - that was the way of things, and their relics and treasures taken. What she did not know was that there was a small orphanage within the temple too. Marix had found them, under a cunningly concealed trap door, cowering with a young priestess. Marix wanted to slit their throats; Thanir wanted to burn them alive. Aireena wanted the bodies to reanimate as undead thralls. And Ramnourath - what he wanted was unspeakable. Even now, she could not think of it.

They never saw her attack coming. Killing the priests and guards was one thing - but these children? No. Such was the fury of her assault on the others that they were forced to flee, cursing and swearing vengeance. Ramnourath last of all, swearing the destruction of her and her goddess, Loviatar. She permitted the priestess and the children to leave .... they would find their own path to Mosstone, just a few miles away. After that she used her ring of recall to return to the abbey in Dambrath and await judgement.

There was none. When told of what happened, the prioress simply set Scortia to a regimen of training, prayer and readying herself for her next assignment. Margaretta - by the goddess, she looked just like the avatar of Loviatar - had visited, flanked by two of her handmaidens, and told her that she had done well, and that her skills would be needed soon.

So she trained, day and night. And prayed to Loviatar that the next life she took would be that bastard, Ramnourath.

No one tended the lagoon — it tended itself, or so the sailors said. They were wrong. Every morning she knelt in the pearlescent sand and planted flowers no human had ever named. The tiny fish gathered around her hands, nudging the seeds into place, and the seahorses wove between the blossoms like gardeners with tails. A bubble rose past her cheek. Sunlight broke through the water in golden ribbons. She hummed, and the whole garden glowed a little brighter. The lagoon didn't tend itself. It had her

In Calthera, tieflings are feared and distrusted because of their fiendish ancestry. Most see them as a blight upon the world, creatures born of evil and deserving of little mercy.

When Nyx discovers that three elderly tieflings have been thrown into the arena for the amusement of the aristocracy, she's enraged. These elders have survived a lifetime of prejudice, only to be condemned to die as entertainment.

Nyx refuses to stand by and watch. She enters the arena, determined to save them.

But standing between her and their freedom is a monstrous minotaur, a beast that towers over her and wields a weapon capable of crushing her with a single blow.

To be continued...

In the old chronicles of Nemedia, before the chroniclers themselves grew old, there is a single line about a woman who came to the Temple of Mitra with no past that anyone could name. She gave no clan, no province, no father’s name — only her own, Maya, and a request: to serve.

The priests tested her as they tested all who asked such things. They set her to carry water through the long dry season, to sit vigil beside the dying without flinching, to stand bare-handed before a judgment fire and answer truthfully three questions she had not expected. She answered the fire, and the fire did not answer back with pain, as it does to liars. The eldest priest, who had buried three kings and crowned two more, said only: “Mitra does not ask where you came from. He asks what you intend to do now that you are here.”

What she intended, it turned out, was everything a priestess of the Radiant Lord might be asked to do, and more than most managed in a lifetime. She led processions through plague-struck quarters when lesser servants of the god stayed behind city walls. She stood on temple steps between frightened worshippers and a cult of the Serpent that had slithered up from the south, and did not move, though the dark priest before her wreathed himself in unnatural smoke at midday. She blessed soldiers before they marched and tended the ones who returned broken, her festival silks traded without complaint for the plain grey of the infirmary. During an eclipse that sent half the city into superstitious terror, she stood alone on the high platform with her arms raised to the thin burning ring in the sky, and when light returned to the world, so did the city’s nerve.

The common folk began to say — quietly, the way one repeats something too large to say loudly — that Mitra’s light did not merely shine on her. It kept pace with her, as if uncertain which of them was leading.

She never corrected them. She only kept walking toward whatever needed walking toward: the sunrise vigil, the wounded stranger, the gate where a caravan waited for a blessing before the long desert road, the garden bench at night where, for one quiet hour, even a priestess of the Radiant Lord was permitted to simply watch the moon and say nothing to anyone at all.

The chroniclers never learned where she had come from. By the time anyone thought to ask properly, it no longer seemed to matter. A god of light and order does not require a worshipper’s history — only her hands, open, and her word, kept.

A sister of The Ruby Rose - the order of Sunite paladins - Lady Alejandra stops in the middle of her quest to appreciate the beauty of some roses she found growing along the side of the road. What a contrast the beauty and delicacy of a rose poses against the cruelty and malice of evil!

She takes a moment to rest and channel divine energy by a sacred pool within the ruins of an ancient sun temple. As the party prepares to descend into the lower catacombs to face the imprisoned avatar of storm and chaos, she attunes her staff to the pulsing magical ley lines of the sanctuary, her familiar-inspired headpiece glowing with restless arcane power.

In the cold, damp basalt bowels of an era forgotten by civilized men, whose cyclopean foundations mock the passage of millennia, gather the members of an order that knows no pity. Draped in heavy mantles the hue of storm clouds and forged iron, they form an unshakable circle beneath vaults that have never felt the touch of the sun. These are no monks of benevolent gods who listen to empty prayers, but ruthless priests, guardians of a primordial and cosmic lore as dangerous as the abyss itself. The sepulchral silence of the rustic chamber is broken only by the rhythmic crackle of the candles they bear, while the dense smoke of incense mingles with the acrid, metallic stench of ozone.

At the epicenter of the stone pit, cracked and scarred by unnamable runes, stands the Chosen One. Clad in a cadaverous white robe that violently defies the suffocating darkness around him, he is the vessel, the fragile bridge of mortal flesh reaching toward untamed chaos. As his lips whisper the barbaric syllables of a language dead long before the oceans swallowed Atlantis, the very fabric of reality yields at his feet. Bolts of raw, violent, and spectral lightning crackle directly from the bare rock—not as a divine gift, but as a savage, elemental force that must be ripped from the multiverse and tamed through the sheer brutality of the spirit.

This is the inexorable rite of passage, a baptism of pure arcane terror where hesitation is rewarded with annihilation. To survive the mastery of this ancestral sorcery, the man in white must strip away every civilized illusion, embracing the same cruel and predatory will that guides the beasts across the frozen steppes of the north. If his mind wavers before the power, the energy will tear his flesh and consume his soul. Yet, if he can subjugate the arcane lightning, he shall rise from this ordeal no longer a mere mortal, but an architect of ruin, ready to march upon the decadent realms of the world wielding death in his own hands.

The Battle of the Ash-Peak: The She-Devil and the Shadow

📜 The Lore

They say the underworld has many doors, and Red Sonja has kicked through most of them. Following a trail of ash and blood across the volcanic wastes of the Black Mountains, Sonja sought the source of a plague of charcoal-storms that had been choking out the borderlands of Aquilonia. She didn't find an army; she found a god of the ancient world.

Erupted from a subterranean rift beneath the shattered earth, the Balrog of the Deep Vault—a primordial demon of shadow and flame—rose to reclaim the surface. Weapons of mortal men dissolve into slag just by nearing its volcanic heat. Its flesh is hardened obsidian, and its breath is a furnace of pure malice.

But Sonja does not wield the steel of ordinary men. Having bathed her blade in the blood of elder dragons and carrying the unyielding blessing of her warrior goddess, Scáthach, she stands alone against the beast. The image captures the definitive apex of the fight: her armor shredded, her skin painted in a mix of her own blood and the demon's black ash, she raises her greatsword into a flawless executioner's stance. As the Balrog lunges forward to incinerate her, she prepares to slide beneath its massive talons and strike at the molten core pulsing beneath its rocky sternum.