traegics

[traegics]

Nikki blinked at the whisper, the soft crack of the door pulling her from the edge of sleep. She didn’t need to ask who it was—she knew that voice like a second heartbeat.

“Yeah, I’m up,” she said quietly, already shifting to make space on the bed. “Get in here, bug.”

She didn’t ask what was wrong. Artemis didn’t knock unless it was one of those nights. And Nikki knew better than to poke at wounds before her sister was ready to speak.

The blanket lifted in silent invitation as she reached out a hand, palm open, grounding. “Left side’s still yours,” she added, voice a touch lighter. “Unless you’re on a mission to steal all the covers again.”

Once Artemis slipped into the bed, Nikki let the silence sit—soft and unjudging—before she spoke again, this time gentler.

“You don’t have to be strong right now. You’re with me.”

And she meant it. Always had. Always would.

artemis felt like a little kid. in some way she hated it. she hated feeling so vulnerable, even with her family still. she had to be strong. that's how she survived. but she wasn't just surviving anymore. and maybe one or two moments like this were okay every now and then. lately she'd been having the nightmares that had plagued her when she first arrived at the mikaelson household. and she liked to check on everyone after them. but mostly, she didn't want to be alone. she knocked on her big sister's door, cracking it. "kiki? you awake?" she whispered into the room. @traegics

[traegics]

Nikki let out a low breath—equal parts exasperated and amused—as she turned fully to face him, eyes skimming over the man who had loomed over too many family stories like a cautionary legend with a charming accent.

“Well, aren’t I lucky,” she drawled, the sarcasm sugar-coated but sharp. “Uncle Nik himself, gracing the courtyard like he didn’t just materialize out of myth and mayhem.”

She took a step closer, her heels silent on the cracked stone, head tilted ever so slightly.

“And for the record, I don’t log your comings and goings. I just... pay attention.” A beat. “Someone has to.”

Her gaze lingered on him—calculating, curious, familiar in that distinctly Mikaelson way. She could see Rebekah in the tilt of his chin, Elijah in the tightness around his eyes, and herself... in the fire that never quite died behind them.

“Besides,” she added, smirking faintly, “you make noise even when you try not to. That smirk of yours practically echoes.”

She folded her arms again, expression unreadable for a moment—then softened, just a little.

“Look, I don’t know why you’re here, but if it’s to lecture me about wandering off alone, don’t. I’m not some damsel that needs saving. And if it’s to remind me what family means… don’t waste the breath. I already know.”

A pause. Then, with the faintest flicker of genuine warmth:

“But if it’s just to stand still for a second and pretend the world’s not collapsing for one damn night… then yeah. You’re welcome to stay.”

She looked back toward the candlelight, voice quiet but steady.

“Even legends need a moment to breathe.”

"I was not made aware that my comings and going within the compound were being logged and recorded with time stamps." Klaus remarked at the woman's sharp tone, folding his arms over his chest and raising an eyebrow at her. God, she was so much like his sister sometimes. At times, it was nearly like looking into a mirror. "Though, I truly would like to meet the person brave enough to try to sink their fangs into the likes of myself." The hybrid mused with a smirk.

[traegics]

Nikki didn’t flinch—because flinching meant softness, and softness meant someone might see her bleeding beneath the gold. But when she heard that voice��low, familiar, cut with an edge that once ruled empires—something in her chest uncoiled. Not with relief. With recognition.

Of course it was Rebekah.

Of course she knew where to find her.

Nikki’s eyes flicked over her shoulder again, lingering now, and her lips curved—not into a smile, exactly. More like something tired pretending not to be.

“No one’s ever accused me of being soft either,” she murmured, tone clipped but not cold. “Not since I was old enough to understand what last names like ours mean.”

She turned back to the candlelit courtyard, letting the silence sit between them for a beat. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Just real. That rare kind of silence they could share without filling it with things they didn’t mean.

“But thanks,” she added finally, voice lower. “For showing up instead of trying to lecture me into a better mood.”

Her fingers toyed with one of her earrings, an old nervous habit she hadn’t outgrown—one Rebekah would recognize from the nursery days. “I’m trying, you know. Not to be terrifying. Not to snap the second someone looks at me wrong. But it’s hard to unlearn survival when that’s what raised you.”

A beat passed. Then she glanced sideways, eyes sharper now, almost teasing.

“And for the record, if anyone thinks they’re getting close enough to bite without permission…” She scoffed softly. “They’re either brave, drunk, or very, very dead.”

But the edge in her tone softened, like it always did with her mother. Just enough to let Rebekah hear what she didn’t say out loud:

I’m scared. I’m angry. I’m tired. But I’m still yours.

“So…” Nikki tilted her head toward the candlelit bench beside her, brow lifting. “You gonna sit? Or are we gonna stand here all night pretending we’re not both wondering what the hell comes next?”

she stood at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed loosely, gaze steady—taking in the silk, the sharp lines, the carefully measured bite in her daughter’s voice like it was a performance she knew by heart. she’d worn that same mask once, too. too many times. “no one ever accused you of being polite,” she said at last, her heels clicking softly as she walked closer. “but they’d be stupid not to call you precise.” she stopped beside nikki, not close enough to crowd—just enough to be known. felt. the kind of presence that didn’t demand anything. didn’t press. just stayed.

“you know,” rebekah said, glancing up at the warped sky above them, “when i was your age, i thought being terrifying was the only way to be heard. to be safe. to be… enough.” her voice didn’t waver, but there was a thread of something quieter beneath it. something honest. “but that armor? it gets heavy. and it doesn’t always keep out what matters.” a pause. then her gaze shifted—sharp again, but softer when it landed on nikki. “i didn’t come out here to fix you. or lecture you. i just wanted to see my daughter.” rebekah let the words settle before adding, wry and a little proud, “besides… if someone’s sinking their teeth in, i’d assume it’s because you let them. and if they didn’t ask nicely first?” she smirked faintly. “they’re about to regret it.” then, quieter—just for her, just between them. “you don’t have to be polite, nikki. you’re a salvatore-mikaelson. you just have to be you."

[traegics]

Nikki didn’t answer right away.

She just let the silence sit there, stretched thin between them like a held breath—like a test she wasn’t sure she’d pass.

Then, slowly, she turned the rest of the way. The edge of her lip tugged upward, just enough to be something like affection. Just enough to acknowledge the woman standing in front of her wasn’t just anyone. Not here. Not now.

“You always did have freakishly good timing,” Nikki murmured, crossing her arms loosely. Her gaze softened, the steel in her spine relaxing by degrees. “And an even freakier ability to find me when I don’t want to be found.”

She looked back toward the crooked skyline, the candlelight flickering in her eyes.

“Is everything okay?” she repeated, the words quiet now, like they might snap if she spoke too loud. “No. Not really. But that’s not new, is it?”

There wasn’t anger in her voice—just weariness, the kind that clings even when you dress it in silk and gold. She let it linger a second longer before shaking her head and offering a small, humorless laugh.

“Everything’s so loud in there,” she said, nodding toward the compound. “But out here… it’s like the silence is louder. Like it’s waiting for something. Or someone.”

A pause. Then her eyes met Stefanie’s again, steadier this time.

“I didn’t mean to drag you into my existential spiral, Aunt Steffy. But now that you’re here…” A ghost of a smirk tugged at her mouth. “You staying? Or do I have to bribe you with bourbon and sarcasm?”

Stefanie couldn't hold back the chuckle that escaped at her nieces words. True, not a lot of people came to this area but going on runs as often as she did would sometimes bring her this way. "You're forgetting about my auntie intuition, kiddo. I know you. Is everything okay? Anything you want to talk about?"

[traegics]

Open Starter - @darkskiesrpgstarters

The coffee was cold.

Not room temperature—cold. Cassandra set the mug down without flinching, her fingers already flying across the keyboard again, the clack of keys a familiar kind of rhythm. Background noise, like wind or war. The newsroom was technically closed—what was left of it, anyway—but that never stopped her. Not when deadlines loomed. Not when the truth still had splinters to dig out.

A yellow legal pad sat beside her laptop, names underlined and circled in red ink. She’d been following a story for weeks now. A pattern no one else seemed to notice—missing people with supernatural ties, rewritten obituaries, entire histories erased clean.

She wasn’t writing about vampires or witches or fae—not officially. Her beat was politics, policy, human interest. But Cassandra had always been good at reading between the lines. And lately? The space between the lines was starting to bleed.

The bell above the door gave a tired chime. She didn’t look up right away.

“If you’re here to tell me this place is haunted,” she said flatly, still typing, “you’re late. My brother’s ghost beat you by about thirty years.”

Another pause. Then, finally, she lifted her gaze—blue eyes sharp and unreadable as they locked onto whoever had wandered into her line of fire.

“Well?” she asked. “You here for a quote, a question, or a warning?”

[traegics]

[ alexandra daddario| she/her] A new face takes refuge under Dark Skies. Cassandra Parker, a 37-year-old witch, is one of those from the FUTURE learning to navigate this changed world. People say behind their back that they’re naive, but the truth is that they’re really unshakably determined. Their style can best be described as ink-stained journals, storm-blue eyes, and the scent of burned sage, and we’ll see how that helps them fit in.

✦ CASSANDRA WREN PARKER ✦

Faceclaim: Alexandra Daddario Age: 37 (resurrected at 7) Pronouns: she/her Species: Witch (Gemini Coven bloodline) Timeline: Future (resurrected) Affiliation: Mystic Falls · Parker family (by blood) · Saltzman family (by love) Occupation: Investigative Journalist (Human Affairs & Social Policy)

✦ BASICS ✦

Full Name: Cassandra Evelyn Parker Nicknames: Cass (used professionally) · Cassie (used only by Josette) Date of Birth: October 29 Zodiac Sign: Scorpio Sexuality: Bisexual Relationship Status: Single Current Residence: Townhouse in Mystic Falls · One spare room locked with a silencing spell

✦ APPEARANCE ✦

Height: 5'7" Build: Slender, poised, with quiet strength Hair: Deep brown, usually worn down or in a sleek bun Eyes: Cool blue with shadows beneath — observant, calculating Distinguishing Marks: A faded scar over her lower abdomen — the one thing time couldn’t erase Style: Clean, minimalistic chic — trench coats, well-fitted jeans, neutral tones, always with a notebook in her bag and a press pass in her coat pocket

✦ PERSONALITY ✦

Cassandra Parker is proof that you can survive something unimaginable and still be the smartest voice in the room. Murdered at age seven by her brother Malachai, she was resurrected decades later—restored as a child and raised by Josette and Alaric Saltzman in a world that had moved on.

She grew up not in fear, but in silence. Because for years, Cassandra claimed to see Kai. Not visions. Not dreams. Him. In alleyways. Behind windows. Watching. Waiting. And every time she said something, people told her it was just trauma. Just memory. Just grief.

So she learned how to speak the truth so clearly, no one could ignore her.

Now, Cassandra is a respected investigative journalist with a national platform—specializing in stories about broken systems, power abuse, political corruption, and human suffering the world tries to scroll past. She doesn’t write about the supernatural. Not publicly. She writes about real people. The ones without magic, without fangs, without protection. The ones most likely to be forgotten.

She’s known for her relentless clarity, ruthless empathy, and refusal to flinch. Cassandra doesn’t need to scream to be heard—she speaks in facts sharp enough to cut. And she never runs from the truth. Not even when it’s her own.

MBTI: INTJ Moral Alignment: Lawful Good Enneagram: 1w2 – The Advocate

✦ FAMILY ✦

Parents: Joshua Parker (deceased), unnamed mother

Siblings:

Josette Laughlin (resurrected)

Malachai Parker (resurrected)

Luke Parker (tbd)

Olivia Parker (tbd)

Joey Parker (deceased)

Two unnamed siblings (deceased)

Parental Figures (Post-Resurrection): Josette Laughlin & Alaric Saltzman

Cousins/Close Bonds: Josie Saltzman & Lizzie Saltzman, two unnamed Saltzman children

✦ HISTORY ✦

Cassandra never got to grow up the first time. She was seven when Kai Parker killed her—left her bleeding out beside her siblings, another name carved into the Gemini Coven’s bloody legacy. But fate had a different plan. A resurrection spell in the future brought her back into a world she didn’t recognize, restored as the child she’d been.

Josette and Alaric raised her like their own—stable, safe, and surrounded by love. But trauma doesn’t forget. And neither did Cassandra. Even before anyone admitted Kai had returned, she saw him. Slipping through the edges of her world like a shadow with teeth. No one believed her. Not even the people who loved her most.

But she didn’t fall apart. She focused. She found power in facts, in language, in truth. She became a journalist—not of magic or monsters, but of the systems that fail people every day. The headlines she writes may not mention Kai. But they carry his echo. Because Cassandra knows exactly what it means to be invisible in your own story—and she refuses to let anyone else feel that way again.

✦ SKILLS & MAGIC ✦

Magical Strengths: Light healing, protective spells, memory-binding rituals (used rarely)

Other Skills: Journalism, persuasive writing, public speaking, research analysis, source protection

Combat Style: Non-combative; trained in basic defensive spells and journalistic discretion

Notable Trait: Her magic is passive by nature—she rarely uses it, having chosen a life grounded in reality over arcane power

✦ HEADCANOS ✦

She drinks black coffee and refuses to trust anyone who takes sugar first

Still keeps a hidden logbook of every time she saw Kai before his “official return”

Owns a rescue dog named Marlowe, named after the playwright

Once exposed a human trafficking ring embedded in a major political campaign—without using a single spell

Is estranged from most of the supernatural world but maintains distant professional respect with Alaric’s old allies

Believes in telling the truth, even when it costs her

[traegics]

Open Starter - @darkskiesrpgstarters

The sky had been wrong for weeks.

Too still. Too quiet. Like the world itself was holding its breath — or waiting for the next person to fall through the cracks of time.

Nikki Elena Salvatore-Mikaelson wasn’t one to wait for anything.

She moved through the French Quarter like it hadn’t fractured—like Triad symbols weren’t being spray-painted on doors, like dead people hadn’t started showing up in alleys and at family dinners, like the world hadn’t bent at the seams and dared to stay that way. The city trembled. Nikki adjusted her heels and kept walking.

The compound behind her buzzed with Mikaelson noise: siblings shouting, cousins panicking, power flaring behind locked doors. Nikki had needed air—or maybe just silence. The kind that wasn’t afraid of her.

So she stood now, in the middle of an old courtyard lit by dying fairy lights and flickering candle wax. Her dress was silk, her earrings gold, and her expression unreadable.

When the footsteps came, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t even turn.

“You’re late,” she said dryly, not bothering to check who it was. “And don’t say you weren’t coming here. No one ends up in this part of the Quarter by accident anymore.”

She finally looked over her shoulder, one brow arched.

“You lost? Or just hoping I’ll save you before someone else sinks their teeth in first?”

A beat. Her tone softened—barely.

“Either way, congratulations. You found a Salvatore-Mikaelson. Just not the polite one.”

[traegics]

[ mia healey | she/her ] A new face takes refuge under Dark Skies. Nikki Elena Salvatore-Mikaelson, a 26-year-old witch (cure), is one of those from the FUTURE learning to navigate this changed world. People say behind their back that they’re fragile, but the truth is that they’re really resilient. Their style can best be described as sunlight through linen curtains, handwritten letters, and the scent of vanilla and old books, and we’ll see how that helps them fit in.

✦ Nikki Elena Salvatore-Mikaelson

Species: Witch Age: 26 Pronouns: She/Her Date of Birth: March 9 Zodiac Sign: Pisces Residence: Mikaelson Compound, French Quarter, New Orleans Occupation: Fashion intern by day, chaos in heels by night Aesthetic: velvet ribbon bookmarks, diamond-studded hairpins, handwritten thank-you notes with ulterior motives, lipstick-stained coffee mugs, antique daggers in designer purses

❖ THE FIRST SALVATORE-MIKAELSON DAUGHTER

Nikki Elena wasn’t just the firstborn. She was the shift. The moment Rebekah Mikaelson became a mother — not by fate, but by choice. The moment Maveric Salvatore stopped running from his family name and started building one of his own.

Born into a house steeped in bloodlines, power, and myth, Nikki didn’t just inherit her legacy — she defined it. She grew up surrounded by elegance and danger, silk sheets and wooden stakes, bedtime stories about Originals and Salvatore brothers. She knows where she comes from.

And she makes sure the world knows too.

❖ APPEARANCE

Faceclaim: Mia Healey Height: 5’7” Build: Lean, graceful — Pilates, dance, and just enough knife training to ruin someone’s day Hair: Glossy blonde, always styled — rarely the same way twice Eyes: Hazel-green, observant, quick to soften or harden depending on who’s looking Tattoos/Piercings: Ears pierced three times, a Roman numeral tattoo of her birthdate on her inner wrist, a single fine-line tattoo in ancient script hidden behind her left ear — Rebekah’s language Style: Old-money elegance meets new-world edge — corset tops under leather jackets, and heels sharp enough to count as weapons

❖ PERSONALITY

Nikki is a spoiled girl done right. Raised on love, luxury, and legend, she learned early how to wield a smile like a blade and how to cry only when it benefits her most. But under the sharp eyeliner and curated confidence? She's a mama's girl to her core. Rebekah is her everything — her standard, her safe space, her fiercest love. And yes, she’s inherited the Mikaelson dramatics… but also their loyalty.

A storm in silk — soft-spoken when she wants to be, scathing when necessary. She was born into high expectations and learned early that being the first meant being the example. So she perfected it.

She’s spoiled, absolutely, but not helpless. She knows how to weaponize charm, when to retreat, and when to strike. Like her mother, she moves through the world like it should already know her name. Like her father, she keeps a dagger behind her back—just in case love fails.

She's a mama's girl through and through. Rebekah is her compass, her softness, her standard. And woe to anyone who speaks her name in vain.

She’s the kind of girl who sends thank-you flowers to her enemies — poisoned ones, if necessary. She is charisma incarnate. Sometimes reckless, always deliberate.

She doesn’t need to be the center of attention. She just usually is.

❖ STRENGTHS

Unshakable self-assurance

Stylish, smart, and socially dominant

Emotionally intuitive (when she wants to be)

Trained in subtle manipulation — it's not evil, it’s survival

Loyalty that's not blind, but feral

Style under pressure — panic never touches her face

Remembers everything — not out of pettiness (okay, maybe a little)

❖ WEAKNESSES

Overconfident in her ability to talk her way out of anything

Struggles with vulnerability unless it's with her mother

Has a hard time admitting when she’s wrong (because she rarely is — duh)

Needs more than she lets on and resents herself for it

❖ FAMILY & RELATIONSHIPS

Mother: Rebekah Mikaelson — the sun, the anchor, the blueprint for everything Nikki wants to be

Father: Maveric Salvatore — her quieter safe space; she listens more than she lets on

Siblings: — Artemis Salvatore-Mikaelson: The storm they chose to love. Artemis wasn’t always a Salvatore-Mikaelson — but the moment she walked into the house three years ago, all defiance and distrust, Nikki knew one thing: she wasn’t going anywhere. They didn’t click right away. Artemis kept her walls high and her temper higher. But Nikki? She wasn’t scared of a little fire. She saw the pain behind the bravado, the fear behind the fight — and met it with manicures, sarcasm, and unwavering presence. Now? Artemis is hers. Maybe not by blood, but by every other measure that matters.

Nikki calls her “little sister” like a threat and a promise. She’s the first to tease her—and the first to bare teeth if anyone else tries.

— Eliza Salvatore-Mikaelson: The quiet one with galaxies in her eyes. Eliza is softness in its truest form — not weakness, but weightless grace. She’s the calm after the storm, the one who speaks when everyone else has given up yelling. Nikki has always been fiercely, wordlessly gentle with her. Eliza came out to Nikki first — not with fear, but with trembling hope. Nikki didn’t cry. She just smiled, pulled her into a hug, and said, “God, Liza, I was wondering how long you were gonna make me wait.” Eliza still has a habit of sneaking into Nikki’s bed when the world feels too sharp. She curls up like a cat, limbs tangled in designer sheets, heart pressed to the only person who’s always known exactly how to hold it.

Nikki would set the world on fire before letting it dim Eliza’s light.

— Marshall Salvatore-Mikaelson: The baby. The chaos. The secret favorite. Marshall is wild in the way only youngest siblings can be — reckless, loud, and somehow always forgiven. Nikki tries to parent him, fails spectacularly, and ends up enabling him more often than not. Still, heaven help anyone who dares speak his name with disrespect.

Nikki acts exasperated by him 99% of the time. The other 1%? She’s bailing him out and threatening anyone who made him need it.

Extended Family: — Klaus: Her "Uncle Nightmare," whom she both adores and argues with — Damon & Elena: Names she carries, histories she studies — Stefanie: Her dad's twin sister and her favorite "Aunt Steffy".

Cousins: Thinks Hope Mikaelson is brilliant.

Crushing On: TBD — if he’s not emotionally unavailable, she probably isn’t interested

Best Friend: TBD — but it’s someone who can keep up, challenge her, and knows when to hand her the match and when to steal it away

Nemesis: Anyone who tries to outshine her without earning it

❖ DEFINING MOMENTS

The Moment She Was Born — The first Salvatore-Mikaelson child. The one that made Rebekah soften, the one that gave Maveric a reason to slow down.

Her 16th Birthday — Black velvet, chandeliers, enchanted roses, and someone tried to hex her heels. She hexed them back harder.

First Breakup, First Burn — She cried for an hour, then had his car towed from three different city zones.

The Merge — Her life fractured into Before and After. Her wardrobe doubled, her patience halved.

The Night She Defended Her Last Name — A witch at a party mocked her family. Nikki didn’t yell. She smiled, toasted, and had their name redacted from five guest lists by morning.

❖ FAVORITES

Ice Cream Flavor: Blackberry balsamic

Time of Day: Early evening — golden hour on a rooftop with a glass of wine

Weather: Warm rain — just enough to mess up someone else’s hair

Breakfast Food: Almond croissants and imported jam, always plated pretty

Dinner Food: Red wine risotto and medium-rare steak

Colors: Bordeaux, blush, champagne gold

Songs: — “Confident” – Demi Lovato — “All Eyes on Me” – Orville Peck — “Cruel World” – Lana Del Rey

Cherished Item: A gold locket Rebekah gave her when she was 5, a picture of her parents rests inside

First Love: A boy who thought she was just pretty. She taught him otherwise.

Usual Mood: Sparkling with danger

One Thing She Wants: To leave behind a legacy that isn't just inherited — but claimed

❖ CURRENT ERA – UNDER DARK SKIES

While the world burns and bloodlines bend under pressure, Nikki remains poised, lip-glossed, and four steps ahead. She’s not interested in saving the world — not unless it comes with heels and control. But her family?

She’d kill for them. Smile while doing it. And still make it to brunch.

She’s not a hero. She’s not a villain. She’s a Salvatore-Mikaelson.

And that, frankly, should be enough.

[traegics]

His arms wrapped around her the second she settled, like muscle memory—like gravity. Xavier didn’t need to ask why she was here. He already knew.

The world outside was crumbling, splintering beneath the weight of fear and power and chaos, and somehow, they were expected to carry it all without ever setting it down. But here—bare skin to bare skin, the chill of night kissing their shoulders, the hum of the city below that hadn’t quite learned how to rest—here, she was just Hope. And he was just the man who’d loved her through every storm.

He rested his glass down without looking. Let his hand slide up the curve of her spine, fingers splaying against warm skin. “You always know exactly when to come back to me,” he murmured, voice lower now—closer to reverence than amusement. “Like some part of you feels it, too… the edge.”

There was something hollow in his chest that only her weight could quiet. A whispering reminder that even the strongest men needed something to anchor them—and she’d always been his anchor. Not because she asked to be. But because she simply was.

He tilted his head, eyes catching hers under the soft rooftop glow. “We don’t break,” he repeated, softer now. “But we do bleed. Even gods get tired, Hope.”

Then, gently, he pressed a kiss just above her heart. “And you’ve been bleeding for everyone long enough.”

His hands settled at her hips, grounding her as much as grounding himself. He didn’t need firelight or declarations or war plans tonight. He needed this—her weight, her breath, the steady beat of her heart against his. The only sound that didn’t lie.

“No more pretending tonight,” he whispered. “Just us. Just this.”

And when he kissed her, it wasn’t possession or desperation—it was a quiet kind of worship. The kind that said: even if the world burns, you will never face it alone.

Hope watched the liquor spill into the glass with an eagerness like sparks in her veins. It had never been her vice of choice, never what got her through days, but right now she salivated for it. Something to numb the aches, the exhaustion - and something to drink beside the man that she loved.

"You're very right about that." It always surprised her, just how reverent he could sound when he spoke about her. Many feared her. Many more hated her. But reverence only came from family - and from love. "Thank you," she accepted the glass, sipping gently and savoring the smoky burn that spoke to expensive alcohol aged well.

She shook her head. "I didn't think that you did. I knew that if you even had a guess you'd have told me already. And you're right; this is about doubt. About stressing unity until it's taut like a string. Like you said, though; we don't break. Not ever."

The soft ring of real crystal sang in the air as their glasses touched. "To recklessness. To you having me, and me having you." She set the glass down and reached for her waist, stripping her top off without a thought and taking a place in his lap. The grounding touch of her wrist had been good, but she wanted her skin against him. More of it.

[traegics]

Open Starter - @darkskiesrpgstarters

The badge felt heavier than it used to.

Maybe it was the weight of too many timelines collapsing. Maybe it was the silence that had followed the broadcast. Or maybe, Liz Forbes just hadn’t realized how much of her soul she’d left in the past until the present came knocking.

She stood outside the Mystic Falls Sheriff’s Station just after midnight, the warm hum of the building behind her giving way to the stillness of the street. The air smelled like magnolia and wet asphalt. Her coffee had gone cold in her hand. She didn’t bother replacing it.

It wasn’t like sleep was coming anytime soon.

The porch light buzzed softly above her, casting a halo that didn’t quite reach the steps. She scanned the shadows out of habit. Old instincts. You never stopped being a cop, even when the world changed shape around you.

Especially then.

Liz exhaled, slow. Measured. Controlled. The kind of breath you take when there’s no one left to lie to but yourself.

She didn’t hear the footsteps right away—but when she did, her shoulders didn’t tense. Didn’t turn. Just one hand slipped casually to her hip as she said, over her shoulder:

“Tell me you’re not here to report another missing person. Or worse—ask for answers I don’t have.”

Then, quieter. More human.

“But if you’re here to talk? Sit. I’ve got five minutes and half a stale donut left.”

[traegics]

Yeah, I'd rather be a lover than a fighter (fighter) 'Cause all my life, I've been fighting Never felt a feeling of comfort, oh And all this time, I've been hiding And I never had someone to call my own, oh nah I'm so used to sharing Love only left me alone But I'm at one with the silence

I found peace in your violence Can't show me, there's no point in trying I'm at one, and I've been quiet for too long I found peace in your violence Can't show me, there's no point in trying I'm at one, and I've been silent for too long

[traegics]

Skyla didn’t let go. Not fully. Just shifted enough to rest her forehead lightly against Ember’s, the way they had when they were little and scared and pretending they weren’t.

“You can’t need me too much,” she said softly. “That’s not how this works. Not with us.”

There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in her voice—just the quiet, unwavering truth of it. Married life or not, supernatural war or not, Skyla had always made one thing clear: Ember wasn’t a weight. She was the reason Skyla had learned how to carry anything at all.

“And for the record,” she added with a faint smirk, “Jesse loves you. You’re his favorite drop-in, even if he pretends to be grumpy about it. He says you keep me from baking my feelings into a seven-tier apology cake.”

Her hands stayed curled around Ember’s as the magic continued to hum between them—a slow, steady stream of something that felt like home. Her other power, the one no one ever named: presence. She didn’t need to fix things to be there. She just was. Always.

Skyla pulled back just enough to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Ember’s ear, eyes soft. “Come on. Kitchen’s still warm. And you can stir while I do the icing, like old times.”

She didn’t say we’ll get through this. Didn’t have to. The way she leaned into her twin, the way her magic softened Ember’s fire without dimming it—it said everything.

Because Skyla didn’t need to fight Ember’s battles.

She just refused to let her fight them alone.

Ember was almost surprised by how much she'd needed to hear that, but down deep she knew it didn't shock her. From the moment they'd been orphaned, through every foster home they'd bounced through, it had been her sister that kept her afloat. Of course it would be the same now.

When she felt arms wrap around her she leaned in, inhaling the mingled scents of her sister and her brother in law from the hoodie that Skyla was wrapped up in. There was so much love there, just in that ratty old hoodie, that she couldn't help but feel comforted by it. "I know," she promised softly. "I just try not to need you too much. You've got this whole married life now, and I don't want to be the annoying sister in law that Jesse gets tired of having drop by."

Shutting her eyes, she let Skyla's magic envelop her own - not smothering the flame, but bringing it slowly down like a soft morning rain over a campfire. The flashes lessened, their intensity dimmed, and she knew that soon they would stop at last. "That sounds like the best idea ever. Because there's no problem those cinnamon rolls can't cure."

[traegics]

Xavier let out a soft exhale—half a laugh, half a sigh—as her boots thudded somewhere behind him. He didn’t turn right away. Just lifted the decanter and poured her a glass with the same measured grace he did everything.

“Darling,” he said, voice dark and affectionate, “if you'd killed them, they wouldn't have been found, the bodies wouldn't exist, and the ground would be whispering your name in reverence.”

He finally glanced over his shoulder, eyes catching hers beneath the low rooftop lighting. She looked tired. Bone-deep, soul-worn tired. And still the most formidable force he’d ever seen walk barefoot across a war zone.

He held out the glass. “There’s always enough for two. Especially when one of us looks like she’s carrying the whole city on her back.”

When she reached him, he let the moment stretch—a silence full of shared history and unspoken ache. Then he reached for her free hand, fingers brushing lightly against her wrist before settling there. Grounding her. Grounding himself.

“No, I don’t know who did it,” he admitted, the words slow, deliberate. “But I do know it was a message. Triad or not, someone’s trying to fracture the line between fear and fact. Make us question each other.”

His eyes searched hers, sharp and sure. “But you and I—we don’t fracture. Let them come.”

He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss just over her pulse point. “Let them see what happens when they push a Mikaelson and a Langthorne to the edge.”

Then, softer—almost tender—he added, “But not tonight. Tonight, we drink. We stand still. And we remember that even in all this chaos… I still have you.”

He clinked his glass gently against hers and murmured, “To recklessness.”

"Do you really think a curfew would ever stop me? Ask Alaric how well that worked at school - hell, you can ask my family how well it worked at home for that matter."

Hope let the elevator door close behind her and walked in measured steps. "God, I'm tired." She kicked off low-heeled boots as she walked, not even caring where they went. "Do you know who killed those people, Hope? Did you kill those people, Hope? Like everyone doesn't know that if I'd killed them they'd never have been found." Her jacket joined her shoes.

"Whatever you're drinking, love, please tell me there's enough for two."

[traegics]

Alaric’s breath caught when her arms wrapped around him. Not like a shock—but like a home he thought had burned down long ago suddenly rebuilt itself around his ribs.

Her scent. Her warmth. The cadence of her heartbeat against his chest. It was Jo. No memory. No dream. No cruel trick of grief.

Just her.

His arms tightened around her before he could think better of it, like if he held her too loosely the world might steal her back. One hand slid up her back, instinctive and reverent, settling between her shoulder blades like a prayer that finally landed.

“I never… I never let myself imagine this part,” he whispered, his voice thick and fraying at the edges. “Not really. I told myself I had to move forward, for the twins. For the school. For everyone else who still needed me breathing.”

A quiet beat passed—just her warmth against him, his hand ghosting over her hair like it might help him memorize the feel of it again.

“But I didn’t breathe right, Jo. Not after you.” He exhaled, shaky. “I functioned. I smiled. I taught. I built something I thought you’d be proud of. But it wasn’t whole. I wasn’t whole.”

She smelled like night air and antiseptic and something familiar he hadn’t named in years. He leaned his chin gently atop her head and let the silence settle like dust around them, heavy and sacred.

“I remember holding you on the ground. I remember your blood on my hands. I remember thinking—I’ll never recover from this.” A broken breath. “And I didn’t.”

His voice was quieter now, steadier. Grounded. But his fingers still trembled where they rested against her back.

“But if we’ve been given this chance… no matter how or why or for how long… then I’m not going to waste it.” He pulled back just enough to look at her. To really look.

“I’m here,” he said simply. “For however long I get to be. For you. For us.”

Then, almost a whisper: “You never stopped being my home, Jo. Even when the world said you were gone.”

her name on his lips stopped the world. jo hadn’t turned when the door creaked, hadn’t turned when the footsteps approached like a memory she hadn’t dared let herself want—but the moment he spoke, just “jo,” like it meant something sacred, her breath caught. not because she wasn’t ready. because she’d never be. grief had rewritten the story of them in jagged pieces. stitched it into a life she hadn’t been there to live. the sound of his voice cracked against the cold like something sacred and unbearable. like a prayer said too late and still answered.

she opened her eyes again, but didn’t move. not yet. not until he finished. his words hit her like waves—truths she’d felt in the quiet spaces since waking up, but hadn’t let herself speak aloud. i thought i lost you. i did lose you. god. she remembered the look in his eyes that day. remembered the warmth fading from her limbs. remembered wanting him to run. and now he was here. real. jo finally turned. slowly. gently. like she might break the moment if she moved too fast. her eyes found his—and she nearly did break.

there were more lines now. more years. more grief. but they were his eyes, the same ones that held her whole once upon a time. the same ones she’d imagined when the world went dark. “you did lose me,” she said softly, voice thick but even. “and i lost you. i missed everything. our children. our life.” a breath. a tremble in her hands. she didn’t hide it. “i remember you holding me. i remember the pain. i remember the last thing i thought before it all went black was how sorry i was that you had to watch me die.”

jo stepped forward. one hand reached out, hesitant at first, then more certain—like maybe she was still real. her fingers brushed against his. warm. shaking. alive. “but i’m here now,” she whispered. “and i don’t know why either. i don’t know how long i’ll have. but if this is real, if this is us…” she let out a breath that sounded halfway to a sob. “then i don’t want to waste a second either.” jo moved into him, arms slipping around his frame like the years hadn’t shattered between them. like grief didn’t live in the space between heartbeats. her head tucked beneath his chin—home, and yet not.

[traegics]

Alaric froze in the doorway like he’d seen a ghost. Because, for all intents and purposes… he had.

Jo.

Her name hit him like a sucker punch—silent and breath-stealing. She stood just as he remembered and not at all. The way her arms folded, the curve of her spine, the wind in her hair—it was her. But older. Sharpened by death. Softer in ways he hadn’t expected.

And yet, the moment she spoke…

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t be up here…”

God. Her voice. He would’ve sworn he’d forgotten the sound, or had only kept the version his grief allowed. But no—this was real. And it undid him.

He swallowed hard, fingers curling around the edge of the doorframe like it might keep him from unraveling. “Jo.”

Just her name. Nothing else. As if saying it again might stitch the world back together.

She didn’t turn. And for a moment, he didn’t move either—afraid that if he did, she’d vanish. Like she had the first time. Like he’d imagined her in dreams too cruel to wake from.

Finally, he stepped forward. One foot, then another. Slowly. Quietly. As if approaching something sacred.

“I don’t care if you’re not supposed to be up here,” he said, voice rough with all the things he hadn’t gotten to say twenty years ago. “You can be wherever the hell you want.”

He stopped a few feet behind her, not yet touching. Not daring.

“I thought I lost you,” he breathed. “No—I did lose you. I held you. On the ground. In that dress. There was nothing I could do. Nothing.”

The words came in fragments. Half-choked. Not from drama, but from memory. From truth.

“And now you’re here and I—” he laughed, soft and pained, brushing his hand down his face. “I’ve imagined this moment so many times, and none of it ever felt real. But this? This feels like drowning and breathing at the same time.”

Another pause. Another breath. The city below them kept humming. Kept moving. As if the universe hadn’t just folded in on itself.

“I don’t know why or how,” he said, quieter now. “But if you’re here… really here… then I’m not wasting another second.”

His voice nearly cracked. “Turn around, Jo. Please.”

And for the first time since that godforsaken night—he let himself hope.

✤.*― josette laughlin / open starter / @darkskiesrpgstarters

location: mystic falls hospital – rooftop garden, just after dusk

it was the quiet that unnerved her most. not the machines. not the footsteps down polished halls. not even the faces—some familiar, some painfully not—that watched her with a mixture of wonder and fear. it was the silence that followed. the pause in conversation when her name was spoken. the way no one quite knew what to say to a woman who had died in her wedding dress and woke up in scrubs a decade later.

jo stood alone in the rooftop garden, arms folded against the growing chill, her fingers absently grazing the scar that shouldn’t be there—right below her ribs, where kai’s blade had carved a permanent absence. the flowers up here had gone a little wild since the curfew started. unpruned, overgrown. it felt honest. she didn’t know how long she’d been staring at the city lights. long enough for the sky to turn indigo. long enough for the ghost of a memory—screaming, blood, the weight of unborn lives—his voice—to start creeping back in. she closed her eyes. breathed in deep. it didn’t help.

behind her, the rooftop door creaked open. jo didn’t turn right away. she was tired of flinching. of bracing for something familiar to be wrong again. instead, she simply said, voice soft but steady, “i know, i know. i shouldn't be up here. i'll be back inside soon.”

[traegics]

Darien’s jaw ticked—just once—as he watched the way she held herself. Hope wrapped in iron. Fear welded into focus. Most people flinched when they asked him about control. She didn’t. She leaned in.

“Good,” he said, voice low, gravel-edged. “You’re not pretending it’s not there. That’s the first mistake most people make. They think if they ignore it long enough, it’ll go away. It doesn’t. It festers.”

He stepped forward—not looming, not threatening. Just… solid. Grounded. Like the anchor she didn’t know she’d need until now.

“You asked what’s like a ripper? Try being half-dragon, half-Ecosian. We’re made of hunger and instinct and rage. We don’t just lose control—we become it. And then we have to claw our way back.”

His gaze sharpened, but not unkindly. “The difference? I wasn’t taught to fear it. I was taught to command it.”

Darien’s tone softened by a fraction—just enough to let her breathe.

“You don’t get rid of the thing inside you. You name it. You teach it your name back. And yeah, it takes time. But I wouldn’t be standing here if it couldn’t be done.”

He took a breath, nostrils flaring just slightly. The scent of her blood wasn’t sharp—yet. But he knew what it would become. And when it did, it wouldn’t ask nicely.

“You want to try human again? Then we do it my way. Controlled. Measured. You don’t just take the edge off—you learn it. When to bite. When to stop. When to let it burn through you without burning you down.”

Her smirk at the end made his lip twitch. Not a smile—never quite that. But close.

“Captain Crunch?” he echoed. “That’s bold, coming from someone I could bench press.”

He let the silence sit a moment before continuing, voice dipping into something steadier. Warmer.

“Lesson one: you’re not a monster. But you are dangerous. That’s not a flaw. It’s a fact. The trick is making sure the danger answers to you.”

He took a step back, tossing her a water bottle from his bag like it was part of the ritual.

“Hydrate, Ripper. We start at sunrise. And if you puke, you clean it up.”

But just before he turned—

His voice lowered, quieter this time. Honest.

“You’ve already done the hardest part. You asked for help. That means you’re not alone in it anymore.” A pause. Then, blunt but certain: “You’ll survive this. I’ll make sure of it.”

And with that, he turned toward the training ring, every inch of him reading battle-scarred and unshakable.

“Let’s tame the storm, Artemis.”

artemis smiled when she sensed no hesitation as he took her own hand. she could be dramatic, that was for sure. but she appreciated that he was so straightforward. that he didn't bullcrap her.

she'd put her trust in him.

she held his gaze, breathing a ragged breath. "how? what's comparable to a ripper?" she asked. she wasn't judging him. wasn't like she didn't believe him. she just didn't know what else could be like that. she'd never even met another ripper before.

"shaped," she repeated softly. "owned? so it's....it won't take over? you can teach me how to do that? it won't....hurt people without control?" she asked, her voice soft but full of hope. she'd always hated that it was like a separate entity in itself. that she practically forgot who she was in the process of drinking human blood. "do you think i could learn how to drink human blood again? i've been on animal since i came to be with my parents. well. since the last time i went ripper," she added.

she missed the warmth of his hand in hers but said nothing.

she took a deep breath as he told her she'd just made her choice. he spoke of it like it was a normal tuesday. but if she could get a handle on the ripper, her whole life would change. she could protect her family. herself.

"all quiet. had some blood before i left the house today. probably will take a day or two before i really start feeling it. animal blood doesn't last me as long. i do prefer not to get swallowed," she chuckled, a small smirk on her lips.

"thank you."

she stood a little straighter - not that it did anything for her height - and looked up at him, her expression determined. "alright captain crunch! let's do it!"

[traegics]

Open Starter - @darkskiesrpgstarters

The porch creaked under River’s boots as he stepped outside, letting the screen door slam shut behind him without care for the noise. It was late—moon hanging low over the tree line, the kind of quiet that only came when the rest of the pack had gone to bed or shifted for the night run.

He hadn’t joined them. Not tonight.

Instead, he leaned against the worn railing, arms crossed, eyes scanning the dark tree line like it might answer questions he hadn’t spoken aloud. Things had been off since the Merge. Landmarks misplaced. Time fractured. Familiar faces older, younger, or missing altogether. And him—still 23, still restless, still trying to figure out what it meant to belong when even the world didn’t seem to know what year it was.

He rolled a toothpick between his fingers before tucking it between his lips—more out of habit than anything. The ache in his ribs had faded from last week's fight, but the weight in his chest hadn’t. Not fully.

Footsteps behind him. Or maybe from the trees.

River didn’t turn his head. Not yet.

“Long way out for someone without a reason,” he said casually, voice low and even. “You lost, or just trying to pretend you’re not?”

His tone wasn’t hostile. Not exactly. But it was measured—like a fuse that hadn't decided whether it wanted to burn or fizzle.

He waited. Not moving. Not blinking. Just watching the dark.