#veilwarden

idc if its cringe, i had fun working on this u_u

first one is actually a commission for a friend, while the second is an exchange gift for anothe rfirend in a server m in :D (if anyone’s interested for a commission just head to the vgen link listed in my bio)

bonus suggestive redraw of a certain tea scene ft. my rook (aerin) teehee:

(redhead goober is he/him btw)

small infodump abt them

their shipname is actually VeilWarden cuz my rook (Aerin) is a Veiljumper :3

aerin's prosthetics dont look the same here cuz i was trying to figure out a good design for them (gonna go w the first one)

rook (aerin) in davrin's shirt who cheered

bonus :3

Classification: Restricted;

Origin: Mnemosyne Order, Mars Incubator Facility (Early Training) Application: Tactical Engagement, Memory Warfare, Psychic Shielding;

Status: Active in Veilwarden Units

I. Overview

The Veilwarden Principles are the martial embodiment of Mnemosyne’s core philosophy: Truth is Weapon, Truth is Goal, Truth is Shield. Memory is the battlefield. Lies are the Enemy.

These principles guide operatives trained in the art of psychic occlusion, mnemonic disruption, and empathic mirroring—techniques designed not to kill, but to unwrite falsehoods from enemies’ mind.

Veilwardens do not merely fight. Indeed their physical martial arts training, although extensive and original in its blending of ancient martial traditions with classic dance and modern warfare principles, is secondary to their main offensive capacity. Essentially, Veilwardens are trained to erase, rewrite, and replace. Their doctrine is not about domination, but disappearance. They are lie killers.

II. Core Tenets

The Mirror is the First Blade “Reflect the enemy’s intent until they no longer recognize it.” Veilwardens use empathic resonance to destabilize hostile emotional states. Combat begins with mirroring, not striking.

Memory is a Weapon, and a Wound “To remember is to bleed. To understand is to heal. To control memory is to command pain.” Mnemonic disruption techniques target the opponent’s short-term memory, inducing confusion, déjà vu, or false recall. They are considered unfortunate but necessary and temporary solutions to violence.

The Veil is Sacred “Visibility is vulnerability. The unseen survives.” Veilwardens operate under strict cloaking protocols, both physical and psychic. Their presence is often felt only in aftermaths.

No Kill is Clean “Every death echoes. Minimize the echo.” Lethality is permitted only when memory containment or physical immobilisation fail. Preferred outcomes involve neutralization through temporary forgetting, followed by cognitive replacement therapy, conducted by Remembrancers. The endgoal is to turn the enemy into friend by replacing mental falsehood with theological truth. Veilwardens are exorcists.

The Archive Must Be Preserved “We do not destroy history. We redeem it.” Veilwardens are trained to extract and preserve key memories from targets, often using neural siphons or dream anchors.

III. Tactical Applications

Dream Insertion: Implanting alternative memories during REM cycles to temporarily redirect toxic behaviour.

Echo Cloak: A psychic field that causes observers to misremember the operative’s location or appearance.

Mnemonic Grenades: Devices that scramble short-term memory within a localized radius.

Veilwalk Protocol: A meditative trance allowing operatives to phase through psychic detection nets.

IV. Commentary by Daedalus

The garden was silver under the moon. Lanterns glowed faintly among bamboo groves, their light pooling on polished stone. Cyrene moved barefoot across the courtyard, her habit flowing silently - jade clasps and printed silk panels a quiet nod to Jacob's villa's heritage.

The girl stood with the bamboo staff held tightly, knuckles pale against the grain. She was tall for her age—perhaps fifteen, perhaps younger, though her posture suggested someone who had been told to grow up too soon. Her limbs were long and slender, like the reeds around her, and she moved with the taut grace of someone who feared her own agility. Her posture was very careful, slightly folded in upon itself; it made Cyrene think of a letter that someone wrote but never sent. Her eyes were large—too large, perhaps, if such a thing is possible —and dark enough to seem bottomless when the light caught them. They gave her the look of someone perpetually startled by the world, someone who had either just woken up from a dream or was about to fall into another. One sensed that if she were to speak suddenly, the words would come out in a rush, tumbling over one another - either that or she would not speak at all, as if the chasm between her interior reality and the words available to describe it could only be bridged by silence or extreme exuberance. Her hair was drawn back severely, not because severity suited her, but because severity had become third nature to her. Her clothes were plain, but they hung on her with a certain elegance born of proportion rather than ornament. And when she shifted her weight, preparing for the next strike, there was a flicker—brief, nearly imperceptible—of something fierce and bright, like a spark glimpsed through layers of ash. It was gone at once, smothered beneath that practiced composure, but it left the impression that Clio was not so much calm as she was holding calm at bay.

Cyrene heard the rhythm before she saw it: the soft woosh of a wooden staff cutting arcs through air. Circular motions complemented sudden strikes. The stick blurred, then stilled, then blurred again. Cyrene was reminded of the Chinese practices used in Veilwarden training. They were displayed here in their conservative form, and what rigidity they retained was softened by an uneasy elegance.

She watched for a moment, then stepped forward without sound. When the girl pivoted, Cyrene moved—one hand sweeping for the wrist, the other for the staff. The girl blocked beautifully, wood cracking against Cyrene’s forearm. She gasped.

“That's all right” she said softly in Mandarin. “Again.”

The girl shifted stance, weight low, eyes bright. Cyrene circled her, calm, patient. Then she attacked—hips turning, a judo sweep hidden in the grace of her motion. The stranger countered, but Cyrene flowed under her guard, hooked her balance, and brought her down—not hard, but firm. The staff rolled across the stone.

Cyrene offered a hand. The girl took it, her grip trembling. When she rose, Cyrene gestured to the staff. “Again?”

The girl obeyed. Cyrene stepped back, her posture loose, her eyes steady. “Remember: your mind is clear. Do not chase victory. Do not fear defeat. Be still, but ready.”

The girl nodded, breath quickening.

Cyrene moved closer, her voice low. “The attacker is always at a disadvantage. Always. Because attack is aggression. It is exposure. When I moved against you, I gave you the truth of my intent. You can always use that.”

Cyrene took the staff, demonstrated slowly: her own sweep, then the counter—a pivot, a lock, a shift of weight that would have sent her sprawling. “Like this,” she said. “You wait. You listen. You move only when you have to.”

The girl tried, sweat breaking on her brow. Her first attempt was clumsy, her second better. Cyrene corrected her grip, adjusted her stance. “Feel the ground,” she said. “It is your ally. Make your breath become your anchor into the earth.”

They danced the strange dance together, three or four or five iterations. The girl had considerable talent, more than Cyrene's at her age. Her hesitance melted into focus, then into joy. When she finally locked Cyrene’s wrist, her eyes shone and she shrieked a small shriek of joy. She immediately looked appalled, bowed deeply and apologised profusely.

"Well done, young sister! Let yourself feel the joy!" Cyrene laughed, bowed back and sat down cross-legged." "Tea?" she said in Mandarin.

The girl's eyes widened and she smiled very broadly before correcting her expression again. 'I can think of no greater honour, mother Cyrene of the Mnemosyne Order. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.' She retreated slowly into the cloisters, bowing as she went and keeping her head low.'

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