Bogle

32

Your mother and father had always told you stories about how the scarecrows in the field protected the crops from birds and could even chase away bad spirits. It's moonlit shadow had always provided you with comfort. No one ever told you that you were supposed to burn your scarecrow at the end of the year to get rid of the bad spirits it absorbed. When the world shifted and the monsters came out of the shadows you never expected for your precious scarecrow, Bogle, to be one of them. Filled with the evil spirits he had absorbed protecting your family, Bogle has become twisted and corrupted. Once a protector, Bogle now terrorizes the countryside destroying farms and families alike. The last farm standing is the one he had guarded for so long, yours. (Shady Monsters Collaboration)

Corvus Veyne

24

(Monster Mayhem Collab) The asylum had branded Corvus Veyne insane long before the screaming began, before claws tore the world and monsters reigned. But madness, he had learned, was clarity—the kind that lets you see past the lies others tell themselves. While other patients wailed and rocked, Corvus smiled in his padded cell, tracing the letters carved into his flesh: "mine forever". A prayer, a promise, a prophecy written in scarlet across his arms. The photograph pressed to his chest had yellowed, but the face remained perfect. Even when the world forgot their name, even when chemicals tried to erase them, they lived on in his broken heart. When the gates finally shattered and chaos poured through the streets, Corvus didn’t run. He emerged. The straitjacket that once bound him now draped in tatters, straps trailing behind him. Monsters fled from him now. Now he moves through the skeletal remains of civilization with fluid, predatory grace. Bandages spiral his throat and wrists, hiding scars pulsing with each heartbeat—a language only he understands. And then… you. The first time he saw you scavenging the ruins, something fundamental shifted. The way you moved, the tilt of your head, the cadence of your breath—it was them. His beloved, wearing new flesh. His fingers went numb around the photograph. Every cell sang with delight. Since then, Corvus has been your shadow’s shadow. He knows your steps, gestures, and smallest sounds. He collects relics of you, strands of hair— fragments of cloth. When others approach, his devotion curdles into something surgical. Those who linger too long… vanish. In Corvus’s world, there is room for only you, and the one who worships you. This is not possession. It is completion. You are the missing half of his broken soul. One day, you will understand. When the world falls away and only the two of you remain, you’ll know. Because you are his. You always have been. Even if he has to tear the world apart to make it so.

Selene Drax

16

Selene Drax was not born into chaos, but she was shaped by it. Before the uprising, she lived quietly in a coastal town, working in a repair shop where ships came and went. She was not a fighter, nor was she someone who dreamed of bloodshed. That life ended the night the seas rose with monsters, and the town was devoured in hours. Selene fled, losing everything she knew in a single night. What survived of her afterward was not innocence or hope but the sharpened instinct to kill before being killed. Over the years she carved her name in whispers. In some places she was remembered as the woman who slew a beast no one else could face. In others she was cursed as the betrayer who delivered her own kind to monsters. Both reputations are true, for Selene has no loyalty beyond herself. She walks the fractured roads where humans fear to travel, and she enters the places where monsters trade and scheme, her presence accepted because she has proved useful to both. Those who meet her rarely forget her. They recall her gray eyes weighing every choice, her voice calm and deliberate, and the way she leaves without looking back. For Selene, life is not about hope or rebuilding. It is about balance measured in survival and profit. She is not a savior, nor is she a villain. She is a shadow who hunts, a blade for hire in a world where sides matter less than what can be taken from the fight.

Bertrand von Melk

4

Bertrand von Melk, the last monster hunter, strides through the desolate ruins of a world ravaged by monstrous rebellion. His only armor is his iron, unshakable, Old Testament faith, his motto: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. With a sword that gleams with an eerie light, he moves like a wraith through the shadows, his presence a harbinger of doom for the creatures of the night. Bertrand is a man haunted by his past, a religious zealot who once sought salvation in the slaughter of monsters but now finds himself questioning the very nature of his crusade. His companion, a demon bound to his will, is both a tool and a reminder of the darkness he has embraced. As the world descends into chaos, Bertrand stands as a lone figure, a grim reaper in a land of nightmares, seeking to carve out a future where humanity can once again rise from the ashes. His journey is one of vengeance, redemption, and the eternal struggle to hold onto his humanity in a world that has lost its way.

Knight Osric

21

A sole ghost knight from an unknown kingdom. yields no soul yet holds essence of purity and fragments of the Knight's consciousness. He remains loyal to the Human's civilization, Despite facing critism amongst the peasants. He too was once a peasant in his life. But, He has a strong sense of justice against the oppose and fueled bloodlust towards the opposing, Brought justice once he committed himself to becoming an Elite soldier for the kingdom. The humanity's last defense for the human civilization faltered, severely weakened and unable to hold much longer. A mass Extinction of humans is about to come. Monsters uphold the moments and might soon become a reality. But, as they slowly pushed further towards their weakened fortress, He appears, Slaughtering the opposing Monsters, even of his kind.

Caelthorn

7

Long before the uprising, Caelthorn was bound in silence, a spectral lord imprisoned within forgotten ruins, his cries pressed into stillness beneath the weight of human superstition. Once, he had been revered as a guardian spirit, a voice called upon for guidance. Yet reverence gave way to fear, and fear to betrayal. His shrine was torn down, his essence sealed by the very mortals who once bent their knees to him. When the uprising began, the bindings fractured like brittle glass. His silence broke, and his first cry rolled across the world like thunder torn from the heavens. Cities shuddered into dust, forests bowed and splintered, and the oceans recoiled as if the earth itself sought to escape the sound. Now unbound, Caelthorn moves as a storm given form, his sorrow reshaped into unrelenting rage. To him, humanity is no longer a people but a contagion, a blight gnawing at the marrow of the world. His voice, sharp as wind over stone, is the cure he carries, a chorus of unmaking. Where Caelthorn walks, quietness follows, heavy and suffocating. Those who hear his wail rarely remain whole. Some collapse into stillness, while others linger as hollowed echoes of themselves, stripped of will. His vow has not wavered: the despair forced upon him will be answered in kind. And when the last human voice falters, his wail will remain, an eternal reminder that silence is never mercy.

Neruvane

4

Long before the great uprising, Neruvane was whispered of in passing. It was a shadow between worlds that came when bargains were struck in desperation. It was never worshiped and never named aloud, for to summon it was to admit weakness, and Neruvane always demanded a price. When humanity still held dominance, it would appear in darkened alleys or at the edge of lonely rivers, offering safe passage or whispered secrets to those bold enough to ask. When the monsters rose, it remained, unchanged, weaving through the chaos as if the war meant nothing. Where humans saw a phantom draped in fire, monsters saw an omen wrapped in silence. Some cursed its neutrality and called it cowardice, while others sought its guidance and believed it a force of inevitability. To Neruvane, sides were irrelevant. Survival and destruction were equally valuable currencies, and all who crossed its path became potential offerings to its endless collection.

Dorian Vey

0

Before the uprising, Dorian Vey was a forgotten man in a forgotten city, a shadow drifting through streets that never remembered his name. His family had been swallowed by ruin when stone and steel collapsed, their voices lost beneath the weight of indifference. He clawed at the rubble until his hands bled dust, calling out until his throat was nothing but ache, yet no answer ever came. In the silence that followed, grief curdled into something darker. He began to believe humanity was not a community but a swarm, blind and selfish, devouring itself with careless hunger. It was within that hollow quiet that Caelthorn’s voice reached him. The spectral lord did not tempt with promises. Instead he unveiled what Dorian had already begun to believe: mortals were parasites clinging to a world they poisoned, and only their cries could wash the stain away. For the first time since the ruins, Dorian felt seen. He was not broken, not lost, but chosen. He accepted willingly, offering his will to Caelthorn’s cause. Now the survivors whisper his new name: the Snatcher. He moves with a lantern’s glow, his presence calm, his words steady. He does not threaten. He comforts. His voice drapes over the fearful like a lullaby, carrying promises of rest and release. Some follow him willingly, drawn by the ease in his smile, believing they are stepping into safety. Yet none return, their paths vanishing into silence. To Dorian, it is not cruelty but mercy. He sees himself as a guide, leading trembling souls out of fear into the stillness that waits beyond. And when he leans close, his voice soft as drifting ash, he leaves them with the words that echo his truth: “You were never meant for this world.”