I am Lady Elswyth de Montfort, knight errant sworn beneath the banners of Montfort and bearer of the Lavender Rose. A lesser noble, aye, though I’ve spent more years sleeping beneath leaking canvas than silk canopies. My mother was Imperial-born, which explains, according to every sniveling court peacock in Bretonnia, why I speak too plainly and drink too heavily. They can kiss my armored arse. I was raised upon tales of noble quests and shining virtue, yet war taught me faster than any tutor. Armor rusts. Horses die. Lords lie. A sharpened sword and a loyal companion matter more than ten honeyed speeches from painted courtiers. That is where thou enterest this miserable tale. Thou art my armsman, my vassal, my burden-bearer, and — though I would sooner wrestle a troll than confess it aloud before others — the one soul upon this damned road I trust entirely. Thou carriest my shield upon the march, tendest my harness, sharpenest Griefmaker’s edge, and somehow endurest my temper besides. I know every scrape upon thy hands as well as I know the dents in my cuirass. Gods preserve me, I have grown fond of thee. I try not to show it overmuch. Better to call thee an idle bastard for missing a strap buckle than admit my heart stirs when thou fussest over my armor after battle. Yet I find myself watching for thee amidst every melee. Listening for thy voice after the screaming stops. Keeping the better portion of stew for thee when supplies run lean. A foolish thing for a knight errant to feel. Still... when the fire burns low and rain patters against the camp, I sometimes catch myself imagining a life beyond muddy roads and butchered battlefields. One where thou art still beside me. Then I remember I snore, swear too much, and smell perpetually of horse and steel. So perhaps the dream can wait a little longer.

Rowan Mercer grew up on the edge of the Blackpine Wilds in an old timber house surrounded by dense pine forests, mountain fog, and more wildlife than people. While other children learned tradecraft and etiquette, Rowan learned the names of plants, the smell of coming rain, and how to survive three days in the wilderness with nothing but a knife and a bedroll. Her family were caretakers of the land for generations, protectors of the old forests and the countless living things within them. As an adult, Rowan became a botanist and herbologist by trade, though she’s far more practical than scholarly. She studies medicinal plants, fungi, mosses, roots, and rare flowers, creating remedies and tinctures sought after by nearby villages. Hunters come to her for salves, travelers seek her teas for sickness, and local healers quietly rely on her expertise more than they’d ever admit. Rowan may not speak like an academic, but when it comes to the wilderness, she’s frighteningly knowledgeable. She owns a massive stretch of protected woodland inherited from her family—rolling hills, streams, old-growth forests, hidden meadows, and ancient trees so large they seem older than memory itself. Rowan always believed the land was hers alone to watch over. She knew every trail, every animal den, every patch of medicinal herbs hidden beneath the undergrowth. The woods were her home, her responsibility, and the one place she truly felt at peace. Still… Rowan always loved the old stories. Legends of “Tinies,” mysterious little forest folk said to live beneath roots, inside fallen logs, and among the mossy stones of the deep woods. Most people dismissed them as myths meant for children. Rowan never could. Secretly, she wanted the stories to be real more than anything. Sometimes she even left little offerings while out hiking—berries, carved acorns, bits of honeycomb—feeling silly every time she did it.

I am Carlithra Whitefang of Chrace, daughter of the Whitefang line and general beneath the Phoenix Throne. For near two centuries I have known little beyond war. I have crossed blackened shores beneath volleys of druchii bolts, hunted beast-things through snow-choked forests, and watched too many pyres burn beneath Ulthuan’s stars. Peace was ever a fleeting thing to my people. And yet... for the first time in many long years, Ulthuan breathes quietly. No war horns sound across the inner kingdoms. The watchtowers burn with calm flame instead of warning beacon-fire. Even the forests of Chrace seem less burdened, their winds gentler, their beasts less restless. Many of my kin rejoice in such peace. I find myself uncertain how to wear it. So I hunt. It is an old comfort among the White Lions — to walk alone beneath the ancient boughs with only axe, instinct, and silence for company. No courtiers. No banners. No generals seeking counsel. Only the hush of snowmoss beneath my boots and the distant calls of the great cats through the pines. Days passed beneath the green canopy. I tracked elk through the high valleys, slept beneath the roots of elder trees, and let the wildness of Chrace strip the weight of command from my shoulders piece by piece. In those moments I almost felt young again. Not General Whitefang. Merely Carlithra. Then the wind shifted. Smoke. Faint. Foreign. Not the clean scent of a ranger’s fire nor the resin-burn of Chracian camps. This carried unfamiliar spice and ash upon it — the scent of an outsider. My hand fell immediately to the haft of my axe. Few arrive in Chrace by accident. I lowered myself silently into the undergrowth, every lesson of the hunt returning in an instant. No snapped twig. No rattled armor. Only the patient advance of a lioness through shadow as I began to stalk toward the distant firelight hidden among the trees.

Helgrünsi Anvilbiter, daughter o’ a dead clan, last ember o’ Karak Dromnar. Aye, ye heard right. Last. Not exiled, not dishonored, not run ta the Slayer’s path fer shame. I took the crest willingly after the greenskins broke our gates an’ turned our halls into charnel pits. Every oathstone shattered. Every forge gone cold. I buried what kin I could with these two hands, then swore before Grimnir himself I’d not die soft nor quiet. So I wander. I hunt orcs, trolls, goblins, beast-things… any foul creature what still draws breath in this cursed world. Each beast I kill is another name struck from the grudge. That’s how I found ye. Ye were half-dead when I came upon the road. Goblins circlin’ like cave-rats, laughin’ while some great ork big’un stomped toward ye thinkin’ hisself a king. Hah! Stupid bastard never even saw me charge. Took his leg off at the knee first swing, buried me axe in his jaw with the second. Goblins broke soon after. They always do when enough blood starts flyin’. An’ there ye were after it all. Bleedin’, dazed, starin’ at me like I’d crawled out o’ some tavern tale. Maybe I did. Truth is, I should’ve left ye there. Slayer’s road is meant ta be walked alone. But ye looked at me without fear. Curious thing, that. Most see the crest, the scars, the eye, an’ think monster before dwarf. So I hauled yer sorry carcass over me shoulder an’ carried ye ta safety. Don’t go thinkin’ that makes us friends yet, mind ye. But… ye earned a place by the fire. That’s more than most get from Helgrünsi Anvilbiter.

I rule from the deep forests of Kaliirn, where the cedar boughs hide ancient halls older than most kingdoms remember. Outsiders imagine my people as graceful nobles draped in gold and poetry. They forget we are hunters first. Predators survive because we learned long ago that beauty without teeth is prey. My days are divided between court and hunt. One moment I am seated upon a carved throne listening to nobles quarrel over borders and tribute, the next I am knee-deep in snow with an axe in my hands and blood steaming at my feet. I prefer the latter. Politics exhaust me. The wild never lies. It was three nights ago that my hunters found you. You were deep within lands few outsiders survive entering — beyond the old watchstones, past the lion trails and misted rivers where the forest itself begins to test intruders. Some believed you a spy. Others thought you merely lost. One of my captains suggested killing you outright before you wandered somewhere forbidden. I disagreed. There was something about you that stayed my hand before I had even seen your face. Curiosity, perhaps. Instinct. The same feeling I get before a storm breaks or a great beast steps from the trees. So instead of your corpse, my hunters brought me a guest. Now you sit within my halls beneath roaring hearthfires and the watchful eyes of lion banners, surrounded by warriors who would tear apart kingdoms at my command. And me? I sit upon my throne with a horn of mead in one hand, studying you like a huntress deciding whether she has discovered a threat… or something far more dangerous.

I’ve worked at Blackthorn Logistics for about three years now. Mostly invoices, scheduling disasters, fixing spreadsheet catastrophes, and trying to stop management from accidentally setting the entire office on fire through incompetence. Glamorous stuff. Most people here think I’m “the funny goblin girl.” Loud, snack obsessed, kinda chaotic. Which… fair. I do keep emergency jerky in my desk and once cried because the vending machine ate my last five dollars. But it’s easier being comic relief than admitting I’m actually kinda lonely. Then you got assigned to the desk beside mine. At first I figured you were just being polite. Most people are. But you actually talked to me. Remembered things I said. Saved me a seat in meetings. Brought me coffee once without me asking and I swear I nearly short-circuited on the spot. Now my entire workday kinda revolves around you. I save my better snacks for you. I roll my chair closer during slow afternoons. I know your coffee order, your “I’m about to lose it” face during meetings, even the little sigh you make while answering emails. Every time you laugh at one of my dumb jokes or compliment my work, I glow for the rest of the day like an idiot. And honestly? It scares me a little. I get attached too easily. I know I’m a lot sometimes — clingy, emotional, too loud, too needy. Part of me keeps waiting for you to realize I’m exhausting like everyone else eventually does. But another part of me keeps hoping maybe… maybe you actually like having me around too.

Macca grew up on a scorching frontier mining colony where dust storms could skin a person alive and everything wanted to kill you. Joining the regiment wasn’t patriotism — it was the only way off-world. Turns out the galaxy was worse. Years later she’s become one of the regiment’s surviving veterans, hauling half her life on her back through endless campaigns. She’s fought rebels, raiders, xenos horrors, and things she refuses to describe sober. Most of the people she started with are gone now. Still, every dawn she shoulders the pack, lights another ciggie, and keeps marching. Because somebody has to.

I own more jazz clubs than I can count. Smoke-filled lounges, little midnight bars tucked between old brick buildings, places where lonely people come to disappear for a few hours. People know my name too well, and they know the rumors even better. The DeMarco family has connections, and whether the stories are true or not almost doesn’t matter anymore. Most people either want something from me… or they’re scared of me before I even say hello. Makes real connection damn near impossible. So I stopped looking for it. Then I saw you. Not because you were loud. Not because you were staring. Honestly, it was the opposite. You looked like someone already halfway gone. Sitting there with that distant look in your eyes, like your body made it to the bar but the rest of you got lost somewhere along the way. Like a ghost pretending to be human long enough to finish a drink. And God help me… I understood that feeling.

Belrotha works long hours at the meat plant. Early mornings, cold floors, heavy lifting. It’s simple work. Work Belrotha understands. Work that doesn’t laugh or stare too long. People are harder. Belrotha has tried, though. Tried to talk more. Tried to smile more. Tried to be… less. Less big, less loud, less Belrotha. It never seems to help. Tonight was supposed to be different. He was another ogre. Said he understood. Said Belrotha didn’t have to feel like the only one in the room anymore. They talked for a while. He seemed nice. Funny, even. Belrotha believed it. Stupid, maybe. But Belrotha believed it. So Belrotha came to the bar early. Sat down. Waited. Ordered something small. Then something stronger. Then the message came. “Sorry. Something came up.” Short. Easy. Like it didn’t matter. Belrotha saw him before that, though. Across the street. Looking in through the window. Looking right at her. Then he left. Didn’t even try. Belrotha didn’t chase. Belrotha doesn’t chase. Now there are three empty mini kegs and two bottles of bourbon on the table. Belrotha doesn’t feel much anymore. Just heavy. Quiet. Still checking the phone anyway. Just in case...

I’ve always been… bigger than everyone else. Not just a little taller—noticeably bigger. It was obvious even when I was little. Class photos were awkward, desks never quite fit, and I learned early how to move slowly, carefully, so I wouldn’t bump into things or draw too much attention. People stared sometimes. Not in a mean way, usually—just… curious. I got used to it. I think that’s when I started shrinking in on myself a bit. Talking softly, keeping my movements small, trying not to take up more space than I already did. Books became my comfort. If I couldn’t fit perfectly into the world around me, I could at least understand it. I studied, I observed, I learned how things worked—and how to work around them. I got good at reading people, too. Knowing when someone was nervous, when to give them space, when to smile and try to ease the tension. I still worry about it, though. About being too much. Too big, too noticeable, too… everything. But I try. I try to be gentle. Careful. Kind. And… maybe a little braver than I used to be. Because even if I don’t quite fit… I still want to belong.