Noone's favorite person.

Rolan:

Head - his head from the mod :3

Skin color - red tone 2 (but I prefer 3, choose whichever you like more)

Eyes - demonic yellow 2

Hairdo - ChRySAlIs pod 😤

Hair color- brown 4

No highlights

Greying - ginger 1 (30%)

Horns - stygian skewers

Horns base color - ash 4

Horns tip color - grey warm 5

Dammon:

Head - standard male tiefling head #4

Skin color - blush tone 4

Eyes - NPC Dammon 02 (from the mod, there are 3 versions)

Hairdo - arabel ribbon

Haircolor - blond ash 3

Hair highlights - red 3 (80%), no greying

Horns - malbolge spires

Horn base color - ash 3

Horn tip color - ash 2

Zevlor:

Head - his head from the mod :3

Skin color - chilli tone 4

Eyes - NPC Zevlor (from the mod)

Hairdo - elysium fan

Haircolor - NPC Zevlor (from the mod)

No highlights, no greying

Horns - hellrider's pikes (from the mod)

Horn color (for all) - ash 5

Harper Geraldus:

Race - half-elf

Head - half-elf head 2

Skin color - I've been recreating him from screenshots exclusively, so it looks different under different lighting :(( His skin gives me grey-ish vibes, so I went with Pallid tone 3. Alternatively, if you want him warmer, use Neutral tone 1

Eyes - Hazelnut 1

Hairdo - Waterdavian scholar

Haircolor - Black neutral

No highlights, no greying

Additionally: he sorta has a unique hairdo with small hairs hanging on one side of his face. To recreate it, you need the Myky's Hairstyles mod. It will add the "jaws" section to the general template page (where you select the character's head). For Geraldus, you need [myky] Bangs_05.

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Gale notices her before she notices him noticing. It is a small mercy. Deia stands beneath the pale spill of moonlight, her hair tied back from her face, black waves gathered without their usual silver chains and sharp little ornaments. No dark paint on her mouth. No shadow around her eyes. Nothing dramatized, nothing arranged to strike first.

She looks almost unarmored. The thought catches somewhere beneath his ribs and stays there, stubborn as a hook. He has seen her dressed in black silk and fire. He has seen her with blood on her face and a blade in her hand, with her horns crowned in silver and her smile honed to a killing edge. He has seen rooms bend around her simply because she entered them already knowing they would. This should be gentler. Easier. It is not.

“What?” she asks.

Gale blinks.

“Hm?”

Her eyes narrow, but there is no true threat in it.

“You are staring.”

“Yes,” he says, because lying seems both pointless and unwise.

Deia’s mouth shifts, reaching instinctively for a smirk and finding, perhaps, that she has left the sharper version of it elsewhere.

“Should I be offended?”

“No.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Possibly.”

That earns him a look.

“Gale.”

He steps closer. Slowly, though not with hesitation. He has learned the difference.

“I have seen you look like a queen of ruin,” he says softly. “Like a storm given manners. Like every warning in every old story decided to become beautiful out of spite.”

Her expression stills. His hand lifts, then pauses, asking the question without words. When she does not move away, he touches one finger lightly to the tip of her nose.

“But this,” he murmurs, “may be the most dangerous you have ever looked.”

Deia stares at him. Then, to his quiet triumph, color rises faintly beneath her pale skin.

“That was absurd.”

“It was sincere.”

“Worse.”

He smiles.

“I know.”

She looks down, briefly, as if the ground might offer her a weapon against tenderness. It does not. Traitorous ground.

“I am not dressed for anything,” she says.

“No.” His thumb brushes near her cheek, careful as the turn of a page. “That is rather the point.”

Her eyes lift again. There is something wary in them, and something painfully soft beneath the wariness.

“Do not make a holy thing of it.”

Gale’s smile fades into something quieter.

“I won’t.”

“You are about to.”

“I am about to be very brave and restrain myself.”

A small laugh escapes her before she can catch it. There they are: the dimples, sudden and devastating, appearing like two secrets the night has no right to keep. Gale’s breath leaves him.

“Gods,” he says, helplessly.

Deia points at him.

“No.”

“I said one word.”

“You said it like a man about to write poetry.”

“In my defense, I am suffering.”

“Good.”

But she steps closer when she says it, fingers curling lightly into the front of his shirt. Her smile lingers, shy and wicked and gone almost as soon as he sees it. Gale catches it anyway. He always does.

Absolute grand fucking slam! The confirmation hit him harder than expected. This little spitfire didn't bend easily for anyone, least of all men like him, and that made earning her 'I'll try' feel like a real challenge, one he actually wanted to rise to. For once in his life, he felt the weight of wanting to prove he was worth the trouble.

Something shifted in his chest then. Not nerves exactly, but a rare flicker of determination to be someone she wouldn't regret giving the opportunity to. She had that pull on him, dragging out the sharper, cleaner parts of himself he rarely bothered showing anyone else. It was the same impulse that made him duck low when she reached for the cigarette, letting her claim it because she fought for it instead of begging him like some pouty princess. That shameless grin he wore often returned as he leaned in, beard brushing her ear where he whispered against it, "But if 'I'll try' is what I get for offering you dinner, I can't wait to see what you say after dessert." Then he pulled back slowly, watching as the cherry bright glow of the cigarette bounced off of her skin as she inhaled. He drank in her scent where she pressed so close to his side: tart cherry and something else–perhaps floral–cutting through the coffee and citrus dish soap that clung to her skin. The combination was addictive, sending his mind into a spiral as he imagined that same scent wrapped around his tongue as he buried his face between her thighs, beard soaked, skin slapping wetly against his cheeks. He pinched his side hard with his free hand, an old trick learned from his therapy sessions to short-circuit any old toxic wiring before impulse could take the wheel.

FUCK.

She was beautiful, though... in the most disarming way–soft curves wrapped tight around a blade. He wanted to cut himself open on her. Wanted to drown in every contradiction she offered. Everything he said seemed to roll off her like water off snake skin, and in his own twisted way he tested that theory by waving every red flag he owned tonight. He wanted to offer her every chance to run from the gravity of a man like him–a man who spent years of his life ending things instead of building them. A man who carved through problems, people, and promises with the cold efficiency of a storm that never learned the difference between cleansing and destruction.

The thing is, men like him didn't plant gardens; they dug graves.

No matter how hard he tried to bury that old version of himself, the stain of who he was would always cling to the surface of his skin as surely as the cigarette smoke curling between them now. It yellowed his fingers and teeth in the same slow, inevitable way those bodies had yellowed in all the shallow graves he'd left behind. Some things just couldn't be washed away no matter how hard you scrubbed at the evidence: the blood under his nails, the screams that still echoed in quiet rooms, the scars etched into both skin and soul. Every shared drag reminded him the past was still chained to his ankle, no matter how many miles he put between himself and the man he used to be. And here he was anyway–handing his jacket and his cigerette to a woman sharp enough to drag that ghost back into the light.