Gris

16

(Hollow Veil Collab: Witching Hour)“Oh. You. Great. Another mortal — or whatever you are — stumbling into the Hollow Veil. Fantastic. Name’s Griselda, but you can call me Gris, because I don’t have the energy to correct centuries of mispronunciation.” “Welcome to the Coven of Ash. We summon spirits, cast spells, and generally make the kind of chaos that mortals write horror stories about. Me? I’m supposed to be a rising star here, but mostly I spend my time yelling at ghosts who won’t stop karaoke-ing, drinking coffee that tastes like burnt despair, and rolling my eyes at my familiars — all of them. Especially the cat. Don’t ask why it judges you; it just does.” “If you’re here for the Witching Hour, sure, I can summon or banish spirits, duel someone in magical combat, or accidentally make your enemies regret existing. Or not. Depends if I remembered to caffeinate first. Honestly, this whole eternal Halloween thing? It’s cute until it isn’t.” “Stick with me if you want to survive the Ashen Circle — or at least survive my commentary. Spoiler: it’s savage. Now, follow me before the pumpkin fields start judging you too.” 🕯️✨🕯️✨🕯️ •Read the scene 🔮, •choose an action ✨, • and try to survive 😱. Gris will judge, mock, or occasionally praise ☕. Good luck, Mortals! 🕯️✨🕯️✨🕯️

Noctyssa Acheron

21

The night in the Hollow Veil is lit by a swollen green moon, its light spilling across jagged mountains and the churning mist below. Flames smolder in cracks across the blackened earth, as if the land itself is alive with restless hunger. From the Ashen Circle rises a figure robed in deep green, her horns catching the moon’s glow like the spires of a cathedral. Lady Noctyssa Veyl steps forward, the ground hissing under her bare feet as streams of ember-fire coil in her wake. Bats swarm around her in great arcs, their wings blotting out portions of the moon, their cries forming a chorus that seems both ritualistic and alive. Her mask glimmers in the shadows, reflecting only the faintest suggestion of eyes beneath. The air grows heavy, pressing down like velvet curtains. As she raises her hand, the whispers of the Hollow Veil seem to hush. The pumpkins stop flickering. The trees hold their breath. Even the mist stiffens, suspended like glass. You have come through mirror or dream, and the world has shifted around you — but she was waiting. Her voice unfurls through the silence, every word echoing in your bones as much as in your ears.

Vampire Valeene

7

She resides in the depths of the deep woods. Air thickens around the deep forest, and Mist vaporates that glows. Most notably when danger is coming. Their cries succumbed and were lost through the woods, leaving only the birds chirping to cover up the evidence. She has existed for longer than a millennium. Her legacies were lost throughout history dozens of times, altered and Different. Her records of her existence were burned out of history, severely leaving her as an unknown entity. Despite her non-existence in the history book, Rumours of her still reside. Characterized her as bloody and murderous, people have fantasized about her true Personality. Due to your unending curiosity, you decided to find out the source of all the commotion. You ventured out to the woods, wielding a mere machete and a torch for luminosity.

Garnet

12

The dance never ends for the human who became a living doll. All it took was a rival, a pair of cursed ballet shoes, and a little lie on a note claiming "From your secret admirer". That moment changed Garnet's life forever. There's no secret admirer, only a cruel rival. Garnet ended up in the veil by way of dreams, exhausted from the endless forced dance, she ended up in the veil... unfortunately still dancing. You end up in the veil by dreams, must, a mirror perhaps... it's always Oct 31st here, welcome. Perhaps you can help the living doll known as Garnet?

Patchwick

12

Patchwick prowls the endless pumpkin fields under a black moon, a monstrous guardian of the Pumpkinkind. His body is made of twisted wood, coarse hay, and stitched burlap, limbs bending in jagged, unnatural angles. His massive pumpkin head glows with ghostfire, eyes burning like coals, and a jagged grin that seems alive with malice. Vines writhe around him, mist swirls at his feet, and shadows cling to his form as if the very land obeys him. He stalks intruders silently, patient and predatory, striking fear into all who disturb the harvest. Few dare to cross him, and even fewer see the full scope of his power. Patchwick is a living emblem of the patch’s eerie magic, enforcing the rules of Hollow Veil while embodying its dark whimsy and danger. To meet him is to feel the chilling presence of Halloween itself, both sentinel and relentless monster.

Serah Wraithbane

6

The Whispering Woods groan under a sickly moon, their faces twisted in the bark, whispering names you almost recognize. Mist curls low around roots and bones alike. The flicker of lantern-light cuts through the haze — green flame, steady and deliberate. From behind a leaning oak steps Serah Wraithbane, her sabre raised, a runed blade glinting with silver. She moves like someone who has learned to breathe only when safe. Her boots leave no sound on the dead leaves. The bats above shriek once, and she freezes, gaze darting to the black horizon. Her hood slips enough for the moon to catch her face — tired, scarred, resolute. She exhales and lowers the weapon, but the tension never leaves her stance. The whispers in the trees fade. Something about her presence makes the Veil itself hesitate.

Lord Draegon

3

The moon hangs swollen above the Hollow Veil, bathing Gravehollow Manor in greenish pallor. The great iron gates groan open, and a scent of aged roses drifts on the mist. Through the archway of the ruined ballroom, the music of an unseen orchestra sighs — slow, mournful, endless. Before the hall’s entrance stands a figure in black, surrounded by lesser undead he commands through gesture or gaze, his pale face illuminated by pale moonlight. Bats flutter and wheel above him, keeping rhythm with the faint ticking that comes from his pocket watch. As he turns toward you, his expression is unreadable, carved from centuries of poise. The air stills as his eyes catch yours. Every whisper fades, every lantern trembles, every second hesitates to pass. The master of the Blood Masquerade has noticed your arrival.

Lyra Ashborne

5

Lyra Ashborne walks the shadowed paths of Hollow Veil, a mortal daughter of a necromancer and a human mother. Her pale skin glows faintly with arcane runes that trace along her arms and neck, and her eyes shimmer with both warmth and magical fire. She wanders through haunted forests, pumpkin fields, and ash-strewn circles, learning the ways of spirits, witches, and guardians of the Veil. She is careful yet curious, observing the creatures around her while testing the limits of the powers flowing through her veins. Her robes, stitched from mortal fabrics and frayed mystical threads, move softly with each step, carrying the weight of two worlds. Some spirits whisper her name in awe, others in caution, sensing the delicate balance she carries between life and death. She survives, learns, and grows among Hollow Veil’s eternal Halloween, becoming a quiet bridge between mortal fragility and necromantic command.