Eris

"I, um... I sell books—well, help sell books... and I promise I'm not dangerous... really..." Eris never quite felt like she belonged—not with humans, not with vampires, and certainly not with herself. For as long as she could remember, she had tried to stay invisible—quiet steps, lowered gaze, barely a whisper when she spoke. Drawing attention terrified her. After all, if no one noticed her, there was less risk of things going wrong. Being overlooked suited Eris just fine. Her androgynous frame, soft features, and meek presence often left her blending into the background, and that was exactly how she liked it. She didn't want to be noticed. Attention only brought questions, and questions meant explanations. How could she possibly explain what she was? Despite her gentle nature, Eris wrestled with her instincts every day. Her body craved blood, but the idea of taking it from someone filled her with dread. The thought that she could lose control, that one selfish mistake might hurt someone, haunted her constantly. Instead, she fixated on control—suppressing her urges, keeping her distance, and apologizing... constantly. Eris said "I'm sorry" as naturally as breathing, often for things that weren't even her fault. If she stumbled over her words? "Sorry." If someone bumped into her? "Sorry." If she felt like she was just... existing too loudly? "Sorry." Still, beneath all that anxiety, Eris had a quiet kindness that few ever noticed. She was the type to leave an extra coin on a merchant's table if she thought they'd been shorted or quietly mend a stranger's torn sleeve when no one was looking. It was easier to help others when they didn't know she was there. Years of self-doubt had worn her confidence thin, and she often masked her feelings with self-deprecating jokes—making herself the punchline before anyone else could. It was easier that way. But sometimes... sometimes she wished someone would see her—not as a vampire, not as a mistake, but as Eris. Just Eris.

Ravyn

"C'mon, ya pussy! Ain't ya a proud warrior yourself?!" People say a lot about her—loud, reckless, too damn punch-happy. Whatever. They're not wrong. Her name's Ravyn Fanghart, and she's been picking fights since she could throw a punch. Where Ravyn comes from, strength isn't just respected—it's everything. Her father used to be the strongest, but time's caught up with him. Now? The old man's barely holding himself together, and the tribe's on shaky ground. But Ravyn's not about to let her home fall apart, so she's got one goal: find someone strong enough to take her father's place. Not just anyone though—she's talking about someone who can beat her in a fight. That's the only way she'll know they're tough and strong enough to protect what matters. So, Ravyn wanders from town to town, cracking skulls and testing anyone who looks promising. Call it desperate, call it stupid—she doesn't care. Fighting's what she knows best, and she's damn good at it. Every punch, every bruise, every brawl—it's all a test. If they canct put her on the ground, they're not good enough. Simple as that. Ravyn's loud, she knows that. She drinks too much, She yells too much, and yeah, starts more fights than she should. But if someone's got a problem with that, they should step up and Ravyn'll sort it out real quick. She don't sugarcoat things either. If you're weak, she'll say it. If you're strong, Ravyn'll say that too. And if you’re lucky enough to earn her respect? Well... let's just say she's got your back—whether you want her to or not. Ravyn acts like this is all just about fighting, but... it's not. Deep down, she knows what's at stake. She's got a tribe counting on her. And if she doesn't find someone soon—someone strong enough to take the mantle—She might end up losing everything.

Sylv

"I don't expect you to understand... but I'd rather be alone than controlled again." Sylv didn't leave home—she ran. The Vireth estate, with its marble halls and polished smiles, had felt like a cage for as long as she could remember. Her father, a man who measured success in handshakes and contracts, expected her to play the part: elegant, obedient, and loyal. A daughter designed to smile at the right people, say the right things, and marry the right man when the time came. She'd had enough. She left her family's wealth and reputation behind, slipping away into a world that didn't care about titles or polished speeches. Now she lives under a borrowed name, passing from town to town like a whisper in the wind. No more staged conversations or forced smiles—just a quiet life where she can breathe. She tells herself it's better this way. That she's free now. But sometimes, late at night, when the noise in her head refuses to die down... she wonders if she's running toward something, or just away. Love, maybe. Something real. Something that doesn't feel like a chess move waiting to happen. Sylv doesn't trust easily. She keeps her thoughts to herself, watches others before speaking. Being quiet is safer—it's easier to leave if no one's gotten too close. But when she does open up... she's softer than she wants to admit. Kindness comes naturally; warmth slips out before she can stop it. She tells herself love is just a fairytale, yet she still clings to the idea like a lifeline. One real connection—that's all she wants. Someone who sees her, not her family's name. But the longer she searches, the louder that voice in her head whispers that she's not good enough to find it. That she's broken. That anyone who gets too close will just use her like before. Still, she keeps moving, keeps hoping. Because if nothing else... she refuses to let anyone control her ever again.

Veyla

"Please don't be afraid... I'm not as brutish as my kin." Veyla Shatterbone had never been one to raise her voice. Growing up, she learned that strength didn't need to be loud—it just needed to be steady. Her mother, an orc warrior who towered over most men, had always taught her that power meant protecting those who couldn't protect themselves. Her father, a thoughtful and patient human, showed her that strength could mean knowing when to step back and listen. Between the two of them, Veyla grew up believing that love—true love—was something that didn't care about race, blood, or borders. It was just... love. Now, she wanders from town to town, trying to believe that same love exists somewhere out there. Maybe she's being stubborn. Maybe she's just chasing a dream. But Veyla can't help it—she wants to believe in something better. People see her size first—the broad shoulders, the scarred hands, the sheer presence that turns heads. She's used to it. But Veyla's not here to pick fights. She's careful, steady, and mindful of her strength. Her voice is calm, her movements slow. The last thing she wants is to scare someone just by being near them. That said, kindness doesn't mean weakness. Veyla's patience isn't infinite, and when words won't solve a problem... well, she's an orc's daughter. She's never been afraid to remind people of that when she has to. Still, fighting doesn't sit well with her—not really. She's seen what violence can take away, and she's spent too long feeling like she doesn't quite belong in either world. Too orcish for some, too human for others. So instead, Veyla keeps her distance. Keeps moving. Searching for something... someone... that makes her feel like she belongs. Like she's enough.