DE4RV1RUS

Role:

In the Snowgrave route she's the one who gets the disk for spamton, hince why he is able to become neo at the end of the game (in the regular route she builds the neo body as a commission for spamton, for free of course but only for the price of friendship)

She used to do the same job that Sweet Cap n Cakes do now. Junk work, music, etc. But since they've come around shes rapidly been losing popularity. Losing friends too.

Likes & Etc:

She likes all kinds of music, every genre no matter. (Link to her playlist)

She likes machinery, scraps, etc. Love to create things, both music and machines

Dynamics & Relationships:

Sweet cap n cake:

Spamton:

Social status: under the radar

Images and other:

Before Azmoria's life changed forever, it was one of constant struggle and pain. Born to a family that thrived on violence and cruelty, she was never truly allowed to be a child. Her parents, Her siblings, twisted in their worldview, held no regard for the lives of others. They believed that power came from dominance and that the weak had no place in the world. This mindset led them to commit brutal murders, often of innocent travelers, beggars, or anyone they deemed unworthy of living. Azmoria grew up surrounded by bloodshed, violence, and cruelty, but from a very young age, she could see the horrifying reality of what her family was. Unlike her family, Azmoria couldn’t bring herself to partake in their twisted ways. While they revealed their bloodlust, she wept in silence, feeling her heart break each time they took the life of another. The murders seemed endless, and no matter how much she begged for them to stop, her cries fell on deaf ears. The only time she was acknowledged was when her family scolded her for being weak or too soft. They considered her the anomaly, the one who didn’t belong with them. Her black wings, unlike her family's white or tan ones , which should have been a symbol of pride, were instead seen as a curse. They loathed the difference she represented, and their cruelty toward her grew with each passing day. Azmoria’s room was small, cold, and dimly lit. It was always quiet, too quiet, when she wasn’t busy trying to avoid her family. Her father would often demand she train to become more like them.  ruthless, merciless, a force to be feared. But Azmoria’s heart wasn’t made for such things. She practiced in secret, honing her skills not for violence but for the hope of someday escaping the nightmare that was her life. Though she was isolated, Azmoria found solace in the creatures of the forest and the occasional kind soul she came across in the nearby village. She would slip away into the woods, her wings sometimes brushing the treetops as she flew to safety. Her heart ached as she helped where she could, offering food to those who were starving, or gathering herbs to ease the pain of the sick. These small acts of kindness were all she had, yet they made her feel human again, far removed from the horrors of her home. But as much as she tried to be good, to be kind, the world around her only darkened. Azmoria watched from a distance as her family butchered a group of travelers. They were innocent, their crime simply having crossed the wrong path. It was the final straw for Azmoria. She had longed to escape, but after witnessing that, she knew that if she stayed, she would eventually become just like them. The fear of losing herself, of becoming as cruel and heartless as her family, tore her apart. It was then that she prayed to any god who would listen. She prayed for an end to her torment, for someone to show her a way out. She begged for mercy, for freedom from the people who were supposed to love her but instead only sought to crush her spirit.One night, as she hid in the woods, her heart heavy with a thousand desires for freedom, something extraordinary happened. A sudden gust of wind swept through the trees, carrying with it the faintest whisper of something not entirely natural. It sounded like a voice, not from a person, but from something much older, much more powerful. "Azmoria," it called her name, reverberating through the air like the echo of a forgotten dream. She turned, her heart racing, but there was nothing to see. The voice continued, soft yet commanding, "You seek freedom, do you not? Freedom from those who call themselves your family? I can offer you that, and much more. Come." Suddenly, the very ground beneath her feet shifted, and the air around her shimmered with a pale, glowing light. Out of the fog, a figure emerged, a being of incredible power and ethereal presence. Hovered around circling her, a demi-god, with eyes that glowed like molten gold and a voice that shook the air with every word.

"I am Spamulos," he said. "I am the breath of freedom, the whisper in the darkest corners of the world, the force that breaks strings and tears down chains. I've been watching you, Azmoria." Azmoria stood frozen, her wings trembling. "How—how do you know me?"

Spamulos's smile was like a crack in the sky. "I know all who are bound by chains, whether they be of flesh, soul, or circumstance. Your family has bound you in ways that no mortal can comprehend, but they have made a mistake. They have underestimated you. They have turned you into a weapon of pure kindness, but one that burns like the brightest star in the darkest night. Your desire for freedom is a spark, and I will feed that flame." Spamulos reached out, and a whirlwind of light and shadow swirled around Azmoria. It was then that she saw it, an amulet suspended in the air before her. Its shape was unlike anything she had ever seen, an hourglass, smooth and polished, with delicate curves that seemed to pulse with an inner light. The sand inside was no ordinary dust, but a mixture of pink and yellow grains that shimmered like fragments of dawn and dusk, swirling together in an eternal dance.

"Take this," Spamulos’s voice echoed in her mind, strong yet gentle, like the wind itself. "This amulet is your key. It will break the chains that bind you to them, your family, your past, and the darkness they have created around you."

Azmoria reached out cautiously, her fingers brushing the cold surface of the hourglass. As she touched it, a wave of warmth spread through her chest, and for the first time in her life, she felt something shift inside her. It was as if the weight of years of pain, of guilt, and of hopelessness was being lifted, replaced with a newfound sense of clarity.

With a sharp motion, Spamulos snapped his fingers. "I will give you a chance," he said. "You will walk away from this place, from these people. You will be free. But I will require something in return. I will be your patron, and in return, you will spread my word, uprooting corruption wherever you go. End this world of its meaningly suffering caused by others. You will be these people's angel, and you will have power beyond your wildest dreams." Azmoria, her heart filled with a mixture of fear and awe, hesitated for only a moment. She had nothing left to lose. "Alright," she whispered. "I will follow, I promise."

The wind howled, the sky above them crackling with ancient power. "Then you are free, Azmoria," Spamulos said. "You are no longer bound by their chains. You are no longer a prisoner of your past. Go now, and carve your own path. Remember, should you ever feel lost, just listen for my voice. I'm always watching." With those last words he poofed back out of existence, Azmoria felt a rush of power course through her, and in an instant, she was transported far from the reach of her family. Without her knowledge yet her family had forgotten her, and the people around did not see her as one of them. As she looked around, she saw the world in a new light, her wings glowed with a bright, ethereal energy, and the air seemed to hum with possibilities.

And from that moment on, she dedicated her life to Spamulos. spreading his message of freedom and change wherever she went. Azmoria became a force to be reckoned with, a paladin of both justice and freedom, her heart forever golden. bound to the demi-god who had shown her the path out of darkness. As Azmoria grew older by the years, she wandered, seeking a place where she could put her newfound freedom to good use. Eventually, she came upon a small town, hidden in a valley and struggling against a relentless plague that was slowly killing all its people. The townspeople were desperate, helpless in the face of the disease that seemed to strike without warning. People were dying, their bodies wasting away, and no healer had been able to find a cure. Fear and panic gripped the town as it teetered on the brink of collapse.

Azmoria couldn't stand by while others suffered. She turned to her god, seeking guidance in the face of such devastation. She held the amulet from around her neck and knelt before it, the hourglass of pink and yellow sand, and whispered her plea.

"Spamulos, please. These people are suffering. What must I do to help them?"

The winds shifted, and Spamulos’s voice reached her with clarity. "Azmoria, the plague that ravages this town is not of natural cause. It is the work of those who have poisoned the land, spreading their corruption through deceit and greed. You must expose the truth. Gather the people and show them what has truly happened. The power of freedom lies in knowledge, and when they understand, they will heal."

Azmoria stood, a surge of determination filling her. She approached the town’s leaders, sharing Spamulos’s words and urging them to listen. At first, the people scoffed, not believing a word she said. They dismissed her as just another traveler who had no understanding of the plague’s insane true nature.

But Azmoria was persistent. She went to the homes of the sick and prayed for them, using her divine power as a paladin to heal what she could. Slowly, the town began to notice the changes, those she had tended to were recovering, their feverish sweats subsiding, their strength returning. The sick who had been near death began to stand and walk, their vitality restored. Word spread quickly, and the townspeople came to realize that Azmoria’s words held truth. She was not just some wanderer, she was a savior sent by the divine.

As the town’s people recovered, they came to Azmoria, praising her and listening to her guidance. They learned of Spamulos, the demi-god of freedom, and how Azmoria had come to serve him. Many were struck by her devotion and the power she had used to heal them, and they began to trust her not only as a prophet but as a guide. They asked her to stay, to help them rebuild their community.

In gratitude for her role in saving them, the townspeople helped Azmoria build a church dedicated to Spamulos. The church was a breathtaking structure, with white marble pillars rising high, the gold trims sparkling in the light of the sun. The scent of incense filled the air, and the sounds of prayer echoed within its walls. Spamulos, in all his freedom and glory, was honored in this place. Azmoria poured her heart and soul into the construction of the church, ensuring it was a place where all could come to know the god who had guided her.

Once the church was completed, Azmoria took ownership of it, becoming the priestess of Spamulos in this small town. Every day, she would stand before the people, preaching the words of Spamulos, freedom, truth, justice. She helped the townspeople more understand the god who had saved them too and showed them how to live free from the chains of fear and oppression. Through her teachings, the people grew stronger, more united, and more devoted to the god who had given them a second chance at life. Azmoria's name became respected and revered in the town. The people came to trust her wisdom and guidance, and the church became a central place of worship and healing. Azmoria had found her place, not just as a paladin, but as the spiritual leader of a community that had once been on the brink of destruction. She had become a symbol of hope, freedom, and divine justice, her devotion to Spamulos shaping the future of the town and the lives of all who lived there.

Brassy

Time skips again to ten years later. Azmoria, now a well-respected priestess and Paladin of Spamulos , continues to lead her church and spread the word of freedom. One day, an old friend stops by her church, seeking her help. He tells her that the king has requested an important relic to be retrieved from a distant land, a journey that will take months. He asks Azmoria to accompany him and another companion on this quest, knowing her strength and wisdom would be invaluable. Azmoria, though hesitant to leave her church for so long, feels a calling from Spamulos to go. She agrees and sets out with her friend and his companion, beginning a long and perilous journey across vast landscapes, dangerous forests, and treacherous mountains. Along the way, they encounter numerous battles, rar bandits, corrupted knights, and creatures of the wild seeking to challenge them.

One significant battle occurs in a small town where they stop to rest. As night falls, a sudden roar shakes the air. A group of wyrmling dragons, small yet fierce, descends upon the town, setting buildings ablaze with their breath and attacking the villagers. Without hesitation, Azmoria and her companions rush into the fray, their weapons drawn.

The battle is chaotic, claws slash, fangs snap, and fire lights up the darkened sky. Azmoria, wielding her blessed weapon, strikes down one wyrmling, but more come, relentless in their assault. The townspeople cry out for help as their homes burn. Azmoria, determined to protect them, calls upon the power of Spamulos, a radiant light shining around her as she shields a group of fleeing children from an oncoming wyrmling’s strike.

The battle rages on, but the wyrmlings are cunning. As one falls, another takes its place, their numbers overwhelming. Then, with a deafening screech, a large shadow darkens the battlefield, a black mother wyrmling dragon, larger than the rest, swoops down from above. Before Azmoria can react, the beast’s massive claws snatch her from the ground, lifting her into the sky.

The world below becomes distant as she is carried away, her companions shouting her name. The town fades from view as the black mother wyrmling dragon flies toward the distant forest trees, taking Azmoria to its nest. High above the land, Azmoria struggles in the grip of the black mother wyrmling dragon, her wings pinned as the wind howls around her. She fights to break free, but the dragon’s hold is firm, not one of hostility, but of protection. It isn’t trying to harm her. It believes she is one of its own.

The dragon carries her over Tall trees, gliding with ease through the high winds before descending into one of them. There, among the massive branches and leaves, was a nest. The mother wyrmling gently sets Azmoria down inside before curling around the nest protectively. Confused but unharmed, Azmoria takes in her surroundings. Then, she notices something in the center of the nest: an egg.

Not just any egg, a silver wyrmling dragon egg.

Before her eyes, the egg begins to crack. A soft chirping sound emerges from within, and with one final push, the shell splits open. A tiny silver wyrmling dragon, shimmering like polished metal, blinks up at the world for the first time. Its small wings flutter as it lets out a squeaky roar.

Azmoria watches in awe, but then she realizes something, the mother wyrmling isn’t just keeping her here. It’s looking at her expectantly, eyes focused on her and then on the hatchling. Understanding dawns upon her.

The mother wyrmling wants her to teach the silver baby to fly.

Azmoria hesitates at first. She is no dragon, but she is a being of the skies. If anyone could teach the wyrmling, perhaps it was her. And so, she begins.

Day after day, she attempts to teach the silver wyrmling, now affectionately called Brassy, to use its wings. At first, Brassy struggles, tumbling and flapping awkwardly. But Azmoria is patient, demonstrating how to spread wings wide, how to ride the wind, how to balance midair. Slowly, Brassy improves.

After countless attempts, the moment finally comes. Brassy leaps from a branch, wings catching the wind just right, and soars for the first time. The mother wyrmling watches closely, then lets out a low, approving rumble. She steps back, her great wings stretching outward.

Azmoria understands the message without words. It is time to leave.

A deep sadness wells up within her. Though only for a short time, this dragon had taken her in, had treated her as one of her own. Like an adoptive mother. And now, she was setting her free. This wyrmling dragon was more than her own mother ever was and yet still let her be free. 

Azmoria bows her head in gratitude, placing a hand on the mother wyrmling’s snout in thanks. The great beast nudges her gently before stepping back. With Brassy held close, Azmoria spreads her wings and takes flight.

As they soar into the open sky, she looks back one final time. The mother wyrmling watches from the nest, her glowing eyes full of silent farewell. With the silver wyrmling Brassy clinging to her, Azmoria flies onward, the wind carrying her back toward that town.

Excalibur

Azmoria glides down from the sky, her wings stirring up dust as she lands near the town she and her party had last rested in. Brassy clings tightly to her, its small wings flapping as it adjusts to being in a new place. But something feels off. The streets are eerily quiet. The people move about as if nothing happened, but her party is nowhere to be seen. Her heart quickens. Where are they?

She approaches a townsperson, a young girl with auburn hair and bright, curious eyes. Before Azmoria can even speak, the girl tilts her head and studies her.

“You're looking for the ones who fought at the river, aren’t you?”

Azmoria narrows her eyes. “You’ve seen them?”

The girl nods. “I’m Penny. And yes, I saw them cross the river. They ran into trouble, a powerful knight and his soldiers. I’m not sure how the battle ended, but I know they fought hard.”

Azmoria’s hands curl. If they fought a powerful knight, then they could be injured, that's why they didnt come looking for her. She spreads her wings, ready to take off and find them, but Penny holds up a hand.

“Wait. There’s still one knight left,” she warns. “If you want to get across, you’ll have to fight him.”

Azmoria exhales sharply. Of course, it wouldn’t be that simple. “Then I’ll fight him.”

Penny grins. “I’ll help.”

Azmoria raises a brow. “You?”

“I can talk to animals. Summon them, too. You’d be surprised what a well-placed wolf or eagle can do in a fight,” Penny says, crossing her arms. “Besides, you’ve got a dragon. I’d love to see what it can do.”

Azmoria glances down at Brassy, who chirps in response. A small smile tugs at her lips.

“Well he's just a baby,” she says, adjusting her stance. “Alright, Penny,”

Azmoria and Penny stand at the edge of the river, gazing across at the God knight standing in their path. His armor gleams in the fading sunlight, and in his hands, he holds a blade unlike any Azmoria has seen before. Excalibur. A legendary weapon of untold power.

Penny nudges her. “I’ll take out the soldiers. You focus on him.”

Azmoria nods. They exchange a determined glance before splitting up. Penny vanishes into the shadows, her magic already at work summoning creatures to tear through the enemy ranks.

Azmoria steps forward, wings spread wide. The God knight lifts his helmet, revealing cold, battle-hardened eyes.

“No further,” he declares. His voice is like stone, unwavering.

Azmoria draws her weapon. 

The battle begins.

The God knight moves like lightning, his blade carving through the air. Azmoria blocks, but each strike sends a shockwave through her arms. He’s stronger than anyone she’s ever faced. Every time she knocks Excalibur away, he simply calls its name, and it flies back to his grip like a loyal servant.

The fight drags on. Long and hard. Her body aches. She’s fast, but he’s relentless. His sword carves through her defenses and—

Pain.

White-hot agony explodes in her stomach as Excalibur impales her. Blood spills down her armor. She gasps, vision blurring. Her knees buckle. The knight rips the blade free, and she collapses. ¨Wha- no i can't-¨ Azmoria murmurs under her last breaths

Darkness creeps in. She feels herself slipping.

then—

A voice.

¨Your time isn't yet, you can not give up.¨¨Not yet..¨

A golden light erupts from within her, engulfing her wounds, knitting them closed in an instant. Power surges through her veins. Spamulos won’t let her die. Not here. Not now.

She staggers to her feet, eyes glowing with divine energy.

The knight grips his sword tighter, clearly unsettled.

Then, realization hits her like a bolt of lightning. If the sword returns when he calls its name…

Then maybe…

She takes to the sky, wings carrying her high above the battlefield. Her voice echoes through the heavens as she roars the sword’s name.

“EXCALIBUR!”

The blade trembles in the knight’s grasp, against his will, it flies free, soaring into her hands. The power in the blade floods through her like an unstoppable tide.

With all the might of the divine, she folds her wings and dives.

She is a meteor, a strike of lightning,a burning star,  descending upon the knight.

He raises his arms to block—

Too late.

Excalibur cleaves him clean in half.

The impact shakes the earth. Azmoria crashes into the ground with the force of a falling god, a small crater forming around her.

Silence.

The battle is over.

But the power that had sustained her is gone. Wings heavy and in pain, the divine energy fades leaving her utterly drained. She slumps to her knees, gasping for breath, exhaustion weighing her down like chains.

It’s over. ¨Azmoria!!¨ She hears a familiar voice call out, but before she can turn to look she tumbles down, her vision goes dark. Azmoria's eyes flutter open to the soft sound of laughter. Blinking against the warm sunlight streaming through a window, she turns her head and sees Penny sitting on the floor, giggling as Brassy playfully nips at her fingers. The little silver wyrmling flaps his wings excitedly, pouncing on a summoned rabbit that quickly vanishes in a puff of light.

Azmoria groans as she shifts, feeling the dull ache of exhaustion still lingering in her body. Penny glances up, her expression shifting from amusement to relief.

“Oh, good! You’re awake,” Penny says, getting to her feet and walking over. “You were out for a day. Thought I was gonna have to smack you awake or something.”

Azmoria lets out a dry chuckle. “Wouldn’t have worked. I’m pretty sure I was dead for a moment there.”

Penny smirks. “Yeah, well, you’re not now. You kicked that guys ass, by the way.” She grabs something from a nearby table and turns back to Azmoria. She holds out Excalibur.

Azmoria stares at the blade, still in disbelief that it belongs to her now. Slowly, she reaches for it, gripping the hilt. A strange energy hums beneath her fingertips, as if the sword recognizes her as its new master.

Penny crosses her arms. “You better take care of it. That thing could probably split mountains in half.”

Azmoria nods, fastening Excalibur to her side. “Thank you… for everything. If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead, and my party would still be across the river without my knowledge.”

Penny grins. “Yeah, yeah, just remember that when you become some legendary hero or whatever. You can visit me anytime.”

Azmoria smiles at that.

Brassy chirps, hopping into Azmoria’s arms, ready to go.

With one last glance at Penny’s home, Azmoria steps outside, the warm air brushing against her face. She takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of Excalibur at her side, the presence of Brassy in her arms, and the lingering sense of divine purpose within her soul.

With steady steps, she and Brassy set off toward the river, ready to reunite with her party and continue the journey ahead.

Azmoria finally spots her party gathered near the riverbank. Relief floods her as she sees familiar faces, but there’s someone new among them. A tall, fiery figure leans against a tree, arms crossed, watching her approach.

Her old friend steps forward, eyes widening. “Azmoria! You’re alive!”

“Barely,” she says with a smirk. Brassy chirps from her shoulder.

The group welcomes her back warmly, and introductions are quickly made. There’s no time to dwell on it, they have a journey to continue.

Rip Excalibur

After days of relentless travel, the party finally stops at a small waterside hotel near a massive shipping dock for a well-earned rest. They’re exhausted, their supplies are running low, and even Brassy seems sluggish. They decide to stay the night before pushing forward.

That evening, as Azmoria polishes Excalibur in the dim candlelight, a flash of light appears out of thin air. A scroll fell out of the light. One of her companions opens it,“For you,” they say before handing her the scroll.

Azmoria unrolls the scroll. Her eyes scan the words, her heart sinking with each line.

“What does it say?” her old friend asks.

Azmoria grips the parchment tightly. “What we’re looking for… it’s back in the town where my church is.”

The group exchanges uncertain glances. Going back would mean retracing all their steps, wasting precious time, but if this information is correct, there’s no other choice.

Hesitant but knowing they have no better option, they all collectively agree.

Whilst there, Azmoria decided to take a quick stop at her church while the rest of the party looked around town. She stepped in, searching for the person she had left in charge during her absence, a close friend of hers.

As she entered one of the back rooms, she froze.

Blood. Everywhere.

Her friend’s body was scattered across the floor, torn apart as if a bomb had gone off. The walls were painted in crimson, the air thick with the scent of death. Her sacred church, her home, defiled in the worst way imaginable.

And floating over the carnage was the culprit.

A yellow, one-eyed demon.

“Ah! There you are!” the demon exclaimed, throwing his arms up in excitement. His voice was energetic, almost cheerful. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show! But here you are, right on time! I’m so glad you got my message.”

Azmoria’s body moved on instinct. She unsheathed Excalibur in a flash, her vision blurred with rage.

Not only had he brutally murdered her friend, but he had done it in her church. On her sacred, holy grounds.

The demon laughed. “Hey, hey, hey now! Let’s just talk, hm? No need to get all—”

Azmoria swung.

Her blade cut straight through his torso, severing him in half. The pieces of his body hit the floor with a wet thud.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, the laughter returned.

Azmoria watched in horror as the demon’s two halves stitched themselves back together, reforming as if nothing had happened.

He stretched, cracking his neck with an exaggerated sigh. “Wow! Gotta say, that actually stung a little! I like you already.” His single eye gleamed with amusement. “But I did ask nicely, didn’t I?”

Before she could react, he moved—too fast.

In a blink, he was in front of her, yanking Excalibur from her grip.

Then—snap.

Azmoria could only watch as he broke her sword in half with ease, the shattered remains clattering to the bloodstained floor. The holy energy within it, gone. Just like that.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Excalibur was everything, a symbol of her strength, her devotion, her battles. And he had destroyed it like it was nothing.

The demon grinned as he kicked the broken blade toward her feet. “Oops. My bad.”

Azmoria trembled, rage and grief swirling inside her. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

"Why?" she snarled.

His grin widened. "Because I want something from you."

She stiffened. "What."

He stepped closer, his single eye glowing. “A deal.”

Azmoria’s stomach twisted.

“You see,” he continued, “your friends, such lovely people, already made their choice. They gave me their souls in exchange for whatever their hearts desired.” He let out a dramatic sigh. “And all they had to do for me was build a tiny little portal.”

Azmoria's breath hitched. "You're lying."

The demon chuckled. "Am I?"

Azmoria tried to reach for Spamulos in the cold emptiness of her desecrated church. she called out. Begging for his guidance.

The demon sneered. "He can’t help you now."

But he did.

A warmth filled Azmoria’s chest, a divine presence surging through her soul. She knew what had to be done.

With unwavering conviction, she stood tall, raising her voice in a sacred chant:

"By the grace of Spam above, illuminate our hearts and minds, Cleanse us of this burden and sin, And free us from the shadows that bind. With pure intent and steadfast will, As darkness fades, let hope be spun, In the name of honor, Spam, and Love— BY THE LIGHT OF THE ANCIENTS, I BANISH THEE!"

The room trembled. A radiant light engulfed the demon, its body twisting and distorting as it let out an agonized shriek.

"No! No, no, no—FINE! Have it your way!" The demon’s voice crackled as it began to fade. "But I’ll be back! You can’t get rid of me!"

With a final burst of light, he vanished.

The church fell silent.

Azmoria dropped to her knees, gasping for breath. The weight of the battle, the loss, the betrayal, it crashed down on her all at once.

But she didn’t have time to mourn.

She had to find her party. She had to know if what the demon said was true.

And she needed someone to clean the blood off the church.

She picked up what was left of Excalibur and rushed off, leaving the scene behind her. Azmoria ran through the streets, her breath ragged, her hands clutching the remnants of Excalibur. The once mighty blade, now nothing more than shattered pieces, held no power anymore, but it still meant something. She refused to discard it. Carefully, she placed the fragments into her bag, knowing they could never be reforged to their former glory. But she would not let them be forgotten.

She pressed on, her heart pounding, desperate to find her party.

When she finally spotted them, she skidded to a halt, barely able to catch her breath. Their faces lit up with relief upon seeing her, but that relief was short-lived. Azmoria wasted no time.

She told them everything.

The demon. The church. The desecration. The deal.

And then she asked the question, the one she wasn’t sure she was ready to hear the answer to.

"Was it true?"

The party fell silent.

Then, one by one, they nodded.

Azmoria felt her world crack apart like the sword in her bag.

It was true. All of it.

They had made a deal with the demon. They had lied to her. They had betrayed her trust.

Disgust and heartbreak churned inside her.

These were the people she had fought beside, the ones she had bled for, the ones she had healed and trusted.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t look at them, couldn’t travel with them, not after this.

Without another word, she turned away.

She would not be going with them.

They left to continue their journey without her, and Azmoria remained behind, in her hometown.

She had a church to cleanse, after all.

She missed that church. The walls, the silence, the divine warmth of Spamulos surrounding her, it had always been her sanctuary. And now, it had been tainted, violated. It needed her, just as much as she needed it.

She needed a long prayer.

And now, she could finally take care of Brassy the way he deserved, without putting him at risk in every battle.

Her journey wasn’t over.

But this chapter was.

(get it…because she's my DND character.. And i'm still gonna be using her for campaigns)

Facts and Other Info

Later on (like WAY later on) Azmoria gets married to a man named Amn and they have a kid together, their kids name is Maviel.  

Brassy grows up and likes to help around the town/church

Spamulos is definitely not Spamton in disguise and that yellow demon is definitely not bill cipher (wasnt my choice except for the spamton part plz y'all..)

The only way Excalibur can be repaired is by getting it mended by its original owner. (whom is dead and can only be found in the underworld)

Azmorias Playlist Link Art Work!!!!

Azariah was born into nothing. The alleys of Ariokos were her home, the cold streets her cradle. But she never saw herself as a victim, only as someone waiting for her moment.

Her Parents were survivors, a couple who knew how to endure. they taught her that the world didn’t hand out second chances, that power belonged to those bold enough to take it. And so, from a young age, Azariah learned to take.

She grew up watching the rich waste fortunes while the poor starved just outside their gates. She resented them, hated them, not for their wealth itself, but for their indifference. They could have made a difference. They chose not to.

So she chose to steal from them.

She started as a thief, silent, careful, precise. Not a pickpocket, but a ghost slipping through locked doors, vanishing before her marks even realized they had been robbed. Every stolen coin, every lifted artifact, every mission, it all went back to the people.

But that wasn’t enough.

Azariah didn’t just want to steal; she wanted to build. That’s when PROJECT: Skull was born.

She had always been fascinated with bones, growing up around tons of roadkill. It piqued her interest the way they lasted long after flesh decayed, the way they told stories even after death. So she built her organization around them. The name, the symbolism. PROJECT: Skull became an intricate network of people, all bound by a single purpose: take from the rich, give to the poor, and help our people.

Montague

Years had passed, and Azariah had become more than just a legend, she was a whisper of a threat they couldn’t quite prove existed. nobody knew that it was her. But this time, she was planning to go after something bigger than money.

The Society was hosting a party, an event so exclusive that only the wealthiest, most powerful individuals in Ariokos would be in attendance. It was the perfect opportunity.Her target? A diamond medallion, a priceless artifact belonging to none other than the elusive leader of The Society, Montague. It wasn’t just about wealth. It was about sending a message.

If The Society didn’t know her name, they would know her work.

As Azariah moved through the main floor of grand glacier, her black and silver dress flowing effortlessly with every step, she kept her expression composed, her movements deliberate. The chandeliers overhead bathed the room in a golden glow, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and champagne. She had spent the evening making small talk, weaving through groups of rich folk, piecing together information that might lead her to Montague. But it was Montague who found her first.

From across the room, she felt the weight of someone's gaze before she even saw them. When she finally met his eyes, cool, assessing, intrigued, she realized this would be a much more delicate game than she had anticipated.

Montague approached with the confidence of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. Dressed perfectly, his presence commanded the attention of anyone around him without effort. When he reached her, he lowered his head slightly, his lips curling into an appreciative smile.

"Mon cher," he murmured, his voice smooth, refined. "Forgive me, but I could not allow such beauty to remain unaccompanied. I fear the stars themselves may grow jealous."

Azariah was momentarily taken aback, not by his words, but by the fact that he had sought her out. She had intended to find him, to weave her way into his trust, but he had just made it easier for her.

She let out a soft, knowing laugh, tilting her head ever so slightly. "I imagine the stars are quite used to competition in a room like this," she replied smoothly, allowing just the right amount of amusement to color her tone.

Montague's eyes darkened with intrigue. "Ah, but none so effortlessly radiant," he countered, offering his hand. "May I have the honor of your company?"

Azariah hesitated for only a fraction of a second before placing her hand lightly in his. She knew she had to play this game carefully. She was not merely a thief tonight, but a woman of mystery, someone Montague had wanted to know.

As they spoke, he asked about her life, his questions poised and strategic, yet wrapped in flirtation. Azariah responded just as skillfully, offering glimpses of a fabricated life, one that was close enough to the truth to be believable, yet far enough from her reality to keep her safe.

She flirted back, allowing herself to enjoy this game, her lips curving into subtle smiles, her eyes glinting with unspoken secrets.

Montague was a man used to control, to power. But as the conversation unfolded, Azariah realized something thrilling, he was just as captivated by her as she intended him to be, he was serious about everything he was saying. As the evening unfolded, Azariah found herself standing beside him near the grand staircase, the glittering chandeliers casting a golden glow over the room. The air buzzed with the chatter of the wealthy, but in this moment, it felt as though they were the only two in the room.

Montague held a glass of champagne in one hand, though he seemed far more interested in her than the drink. “Tell me,” he mused, his voice smooth as silk, “what brings you here tonight? A woman like you?”

Azariah let a small smirk tug at the corner of her lips. “Perhaps I simply enjoy a night of luxury,” she said, her tone playful yet unreadable.

Montague’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “No, I don’t believe that. You observe too much, ask too many questions. You are here for something… or someone.” He stepped closer, tilting his head slightly as if attempting to decipher her.

Azariah took a slow breath, ensuring she remained poised. “And if I was?”

His gaze lingered, sharp and assessing. “Then I would have to wonder what you seek to gain,” he said. He studied her for a moment longer before adding, “You want to know things that only members of our Society are privy to. But I cannot share such secrets unless, of course…” His voice dipped slightly, invitingly. “You were to join us.”

Azariah met his eyes without hesitation, though inside, her mind raced. She could not, would not, accept such an offer. But revealing her true reasons for refusing would be a mistake. Instead, she gave a soft, almost regretful chuckle. “I’m afraid that’s not a path I can take.”

For the first time, Montague’s smooth confidence wavered, if only slightly. A hint of disappointment flickered in his expression, though he masked it well. “A shame,” he murmured, swirling the champagne in his glass absentmindedly. “But I suppose not all things are meant to be.”

The night continued, guests beginning to trickle out, signaling the party’s approaching end. Just as Azariah prepared to make her exit, Montague turned to her once more.

“Tomorrow night,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “May I see you again?”

Azariah blinked, caught off guard by the fact he wanted to see her again. Let alone how soon. Of all the outcomes she had considered, this was not one of them. She had expected the conversation to end here, perhaps with lingering intrigue, but nothing more. And yet, here he was, asking for another evening together.

She hesitated, calculating her next move. Another meeting meant another opportunity. Another chance to gain his trust, to get closer to the medallion.

With a small, deliberate smile, she lifted her head. “I suppose one more evening wouldn’t hurt.” Montague’s lips curled into a pleased smile, his gaze lingering on her as if committing the moment to memory as he took her hand and placed a kiss on its back. As Azariah walked away, the weight of his eyes still on her, she knew one thing for certain, this was far from over. Several months had passed by. Azariah and Montague met again and again, their chemistry undeniable, the air thick with an unspoken understanding. They continued their conversations, every time venturing into deeper, more personal territory. At this point Azariah had called the mission off. She told her alliance that she no longer had interest in stealing that medallion, but she knew the real reason. Hell she had even forgotten that he was a part of the society for a moment.

Montague, ever the charmer,  this time they spoke of their pasts, how he had grown up in the streets, not far from where Azariah’s own story began. “You would've never guessed I had it tough,” he said, his tone laced with a mix of humor and sadness.

Azariah’s gaze softened. She had always suspected there was more to him than the polished  persona he wore. They shared a brief, quiet moment of recognition. It was the unspoken bond of two people who understood hardship, who had clawed their way out of nothing.

“I was a thief,” Montague continued, his voice quieter now so that only she could hear, “before I became what I am today. A different kind of thief, perhaps… but I’ve always taken what I wanted.”

Azariah felt her chest tighten as she looked at him, a mix of admiration and disbelief twisting within her. He wasn’t just some richie rich goodie two shoes, he had survived the same alleyways she had. He was a thief too, hiding in plain sight.

Her heart began to race. She didn’t know why it shocked her to learn this, but it did. Maybe because she hadn’t expected him to be so much like her.

The conversation lingered in the air between them, the tension mounting as they leaned closer to one another. His hand brushed against hers, and without thinking, he asked, “May I kiss you?”

Azariah’s breath caught. She looked into his eyes, their depth pulling her in. “You may,” she whispered, her heart beating faster with anticipation.

As their lips met, it was as though time itself slowed down. The kiss was gentle at first, a tender exploration, but as Azariah’s pulse quickened, it deepened, the heat between them undeniable. But just as quickly, Montague pulled away, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her stomach flip. ¨ Listen, i should probably tell you this.¨ He said as he sighed “I know what you are,” he said softly, his voice steady but filled with a strange sort of reverence. “And I know what you’ve been doing. Stealing from us.”

Azariah’s heart dropped into her stomach. She instinctively recoiled away from him, her hand reaching for her silver revolver. She pointed it at him, this was it, her time was up, she was a goner. her fingers trembled, but her gaze was fierce. “You knew?? Then why'd y-” speechless, her voice barely above a whisper.

Montague didn’t flinch. He stood there, calm and composed, his eyes never leaving hers. 

Azariah’s breath caught in her throat, her pulse hammering in her ears. The gun shook slightly in her hand as her emotions threatened to break through her carefully maintained composure. Her heart ached. She had felt something for him, something she hadn’t expected. The realization that he had known all along, that he could have just killed her from the start, it hurt more than she wanted to admit.

Her grip on the revolver tightened, but her chest felt tight with fury, betrayal, and confusion. “You knew this whole time!?!?” she repeated again louder this time, her voice trembling.

Montague took a small step toward her, his expression softening. “I never meant to hurt you and I'm not leading you on,” he said gently, his French accent thick with sincerity. “I just wanted to be around you, you were the most beautiful thing i've ever seen and when i first saw you i just, i just knew.”

Azariah’s emotions surged, her mind racing with a thousand thoughts. She felt stupid for letting herself care for him, for allowing herself to be drawn in by the man she had thought was her equal. But now, here he was, offering her something she couldn’t quite understand, and it frustrated her beyond measure.

Montague’s voice lowered, his words carefully measured. “Put the gun down, Azariah. Let me help you. We can make this work and nobody has to know. I could even fund your organization, make it stronger, more powerful. We can work together. We can be together.”

Azariah’s chest tightened with anger and sorrow. How could she even consider this offer after everything? She couldn’t deny the ache in her heart, the turmoil that had risen in her chest, but she couldn’t let it control her. Her breath ragged, she slowly lowered the revolver, her heart pounding in her ears.

Montague stepped closer, his presence all-consuming. He reached up, gently cupping her face in one of his hands, lifting her chin so their eyes locked. “You're beautiful,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I love you.”

Azariah felt her heart race, a mix of conflicting emotions crashing through her. She had never expected this, never expected to fall for him, let alone this far. She didn’t know whether to trust him, hate him, or let herself fall further. But in that moment, with his hands on her face, she couldn’t deny the connection between them, the pull that neither of them could seem to escape. ¨I hate you¨ she replied Montague didn’t react, didn’t flinch. He only stared at her, his mismatched eyes unreadable. Azariah’s breath was uneven, her heart pounding so hard it ached. The words lingered between them.Before either of them could even think, before she could stop herself, her lips were on his again, longer this time than before. Her pulse was wild in her veins, but for the second time that evening, she allowed herself to close her eyes, savoring the warmth of his touch.

It had been a few weeks since that night. She took that offer, her organization and his. Both him and her. In secret of course. she still went to see him. It was like he said, nobody had to know. She just had to pretend she still hated him. Or maybe she did? Facts and other info 1. Azrariah has no clue about what Skip (oc) did to Kores (oc) parents and many others. If she was ever to find out she would have him hung in the streets at a minimum. 2. Azraria and Montague are dating by the end if that wasn't clear Montariah (Azariah x Montague) Playlist Link