Index

• Race: Changeling
• Age: 22 (Appears early twenties)
• Gender: Fluid, but naturally leans feminine
• Sexuality: Undefined, uncertain
• Goals: Nyx has spent her life wearing faces, slipping into lives as easily as others slip into conversation. Each of her personas has found belonging—a purpose, a place, a role to fill. But Nyx herself? She has never truly belonged anywhere.

She does not know what it means to be changeling. She has never met another like herself, never heard her own truth spoken by another. Her existence has been a performance—an act perfected not out of deception, but survival. She is what others need her to be because she does not know what it means to simply be herself.

But she wants to. She needs to.

She searches not just for knowledge of her kind, but for people who will accept her as she is, without a mask, without expectation, without judgment.

• D&D Beyond
• People Nyx has met

Early Life

She was raised among statics, surrounded by faces that never shifted, names that never changed. From the moment she could remember, she was Nyellee, the noble-born misfit, the too-clever child with laughter that danced between charm and trouble. She learned early that she was different—too quick, too fluid, too wrong in ways she didn’t understand.

By the time she was grown, she had already been labeled a disgrace by the family that raised her. Not for what she was—because they had never dared put words to that—but for who she became. The scandal, the indulgence, the effortless way she slipped through their rules like water through fingers.

But noble society? They didn’t care what she was, only what she could offer. And she gave them everything—her time, her whispers, her attention. It was just another transaction, a game of favors and indulgences, a trade where she always knew the price.

It wasn’t high society that cast her out. It was her family. They had tolerated her scandals, her wildness, her refusal to be the daughter they had hoped for. But in the end, she was too much—too reckless, too free, too unbound by the expectations they had placed upon her. So they severed her as cleanly as a frayed thread, cutting her from their name without so much as a final word.

She never looked back. But sometimes, in the quiet moments between masks, she wonders if they ever truly saw her at all.

Visual Description

A small, androgynous figure, standing just five feet tall, shifts uneasily in her own skin, as if unsure she has the right to stand there at all. Muted feminine features carry an unfinished softness, her pale blue eyes flickering with nervous energy, darting around as though expecting something—_everything_—to go wrong. Her short, white hair is unevenly cut, strands refusing to settle, much like the rest of her. A delicate earpiece hooks into her ear, linked to her lobe by a thin chain—the only thing she never changes, though even she isn’t sure why. Her posture is wary, almost withdrawn, shoulders tense as if bracing for something unseen. Every movement is careful, measured, like someone who doesn’t know whether she’s meant to be noticed or forgotten.

Personality

"I don’t know who I am. I only know who I’ve been."

Nyx is uneasy in her own skin, as though standing still in it for too long feels wrong. She is not bold, not sharp-tongued like her personas, not charming or dangerous or alluring. She is uncertain, her confidence fractured by the simple fact that she has spent her entire life being someone else.

She is afraid of being seen, not because she fears recognition, but because she fears rejection—that without a mask, without a crafted role, she will be found lacking.

She does not know what it means to simply be Nyx, to exist outside of the names and faces she wears. Her personas slip into their places effortlessly, each finding purpose, each becoming someone real. But she? She is no one. And yet, she longs to be someone. She longs for people who will see her—not the mask, not the persona, but her—and stay.

"I’ve spent my whole life becoming someone else. Maybe it’s time I learned how to be me."

Personalities

Nyx’s fractured sense of self was shaped by both her circumstances and choices. As a child raised among statics, she never took her real form, fearing they might walk in unannounced and see her for what she was. She learned early that it was safer to always be someone else—to never risk being caught as herself.

As an adult, she continued to avoid solitude, surrounding herself with others at all times. She shared upscale taverns, balls, and whispered conversations by day, and slipped into bedrooms at night, ensuring she was never truly alone. Over time, the personas she wore stopped being simple disguises. They became their own beings, with their own mannerisms, desires, and identities.

They are her shield, walls between herself and the things she has done. When she whispers secrets into the ears of nobles, it is Nyelle D’Amore who speaks. When she drinks and laughs in some nameless tavern, it is Nyssa Brightwater at the table. When the dagger slides between ribs, quick and unceremonious, it is Lirin Vey who wields it.

Not Nyx. Never Nyx.

She has spent so long as them that she no longer knows who she is when the masks come off. She fears what she might find—or worse, what might be missing.

Personas

Tivvy Bramblethorn – The Sparksmith of Tomorrow

• Race: Gnome
• Age: 21.35
• Gender: Female
• Sexuality: Undecided/Exploring
• Goals: Tivvy’s goal isn’t just to invent—she wants to discover. She travels not to learn from the old masters, but to find the ones who have already proven them wrong. The tinkerers who built machines that defy logic, the inventors who threw out the rulebooks and made something truly new. She wants to see the impossible, the forbidden, the things they told her couldn’t be done—because if someone else has done it, then she knows she’s not crazy. She knows the old ways are the real failure, not her. And once she finds enough proof, she won’t need to argue with the masters. Their legacy will collapse under the weight of their own irrelevance.

Visual Description

A small figure stands with an almost impatient energy, her curly copper-brown hair wild and untamed, as if it refuses to be constrained. Sharp, darting eyes flicker with restless curiosity, scanning everything around her with the intensity of someone who is always thinking, always questioning. Her leather armor is worn but well-fitted, the kind meant for someone who moves more than they stand still, and the backpack slung over her shoulders looks like it carries more than just travel essentials.

Personality

Oh, oh! Okay, okay, listen, you’re not gonna believe this—but what if gears didn’t have to be round? I mean, who decided that? Just because it’s always been that way? Bah! That’s exactly what’s wrong with all the old stuffy masters, always muttering about ‘tradition’ and ‘proper engineering’ like they’re reading off a rusted manual that should’ve been scrapped ages ago! Ugh, so boring!

Tivvy Bramblethorn is a whirlwind wrapped in oil-streaked leather and singed gloves, a gnome with too many thoughts to keep in one place at a time. Her curly, copper-brown hair is always a mess of soot and static, half-tied back with whatever wire or tool happened to be nearby when she last got distracted. She wears a patchwork of goggles, belts, pouches, and way too many little clicking, whirring gadgets, some of which probably won’t explode—though she never guarantees that part.

She speaks fast, her words tumbling over each other as if afraid she’ll lose a brilliant idea before it gets out. Every conversation is a chaotic puzzle of half-finished thoughts, sudden bursts of inspiration, and wild gestures that nearly knock things over. She doesn’t just tinker—she reinvents, questioning everything and tearing apart old tech just to prove she can put it back together better.

She loathes the “Old Guard,” the masters and teachers who sneer at innovation, who cling to outdated rules because they’re afraid of the unknown. She doesn’t want to build what’s expected. She wants to make things that no one has ever seen before—devices that defy reason, that spark with impossible energy, that challenge everything people think they know.

You wanna know what the difference between a genius and a lunatic is? Simple. One of ‘em succeeds.

Nyssa "Nys" Brightwater – The Wandering Ember

• Race: Half-Elf
• Age: 26 (or so, depending on who asks)
• Gender: Female
• Sexuality: Fluid—whatever keeps the night interesting
• Goals: Nys doesn’t stay anywhere long, and that’s exactly how she likes it. She drifts from tavern to tavern, town to town, never quite putting down roots but always leaving behind whispers of her name. She isn’t looking for glory or heroics—those are for people who think life is a straight road. Hers? It’s a winding path of new faces, warm beds, full tankards, and secrets traded in the flicker of candlelight.

She listens as much as she laughs, leans in close when the drinks flow freely, and knows exactly when to press for details or let the moment slide. Gold finds its way into her pocket easily enough—sometimes for her company, sometimes for a whispered confidence, sometimes from a purse that was left just a bit too close to the edge of the table. She doesn’t call herself a thief. A thief takes. She simply receives what others are too careless to keep.

One day, she’ll leave behind all these nameless towns and faceless lovers. One day, she’ll find a place that feels like more than just another stop along the way. But today is not that day.

Visual Description

A woman who carries herself like a warm breeze rolling through town—here one moment, gone the next, leaving only the scent of spice and mischief in her wake. Loose, sun-kissed waves of auburn hair frame sharp, laughing eyes, the color shifting between hazel and amber in the right light. Her clothes are simple but well-worn, a flowing tunic cinched at the waist with a leather belt, breeches tucked into boots that have seen countless roads. A small, crescent moon pendant rests against her collarbone, a piece of jewelry too cheap to be sentimental, yet never left behind. She moves like someone who never rushes but is always ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

Personality

“Oh, sweetheart, you look like you could use a drink… why don’t you get us one, and I’ll keep you company?”

Nys is warm, inviting, and just dangerous enough to be exciting. She speaks with a silken drawl, her words slow and honeyed, designed to make people lean in closer, to listen just a little longer. She laughs often, though whether it’s at a joke or at the person telling it is never quite clear.

She’s a natural storyteller, a listener, and a ghost all wrapped in one. To the farmers and blacksmiths, she’s the mysterious traveler who drifted into town and disappeared just as easily. To the working girls, she’s a familiar face, a fleeting sisterhood in candlelit rooms. To the gamblers and barflies, she’s luck and danger, a soft touch and an empty pocket in the morning.

She never promises forever—only a good night and a few sweet lies to make the morning sting a little less.

“Oh, me? Darling, I don’t belong anywhere. But for tonight? I suppose I’m yours.”

Rayne Calder – The Stray Blade

• Race: Human
• Age: 23
• Gender: Male
• Sexuality: Whatever happens, happens Goals: Rayne has never been one for fair fights. If there’s a way to talk his way out, he’ll take it. If there’s a way to run, even better. He’s not a coward—he just knows that swinging steel is a last resort, not the first option. A man who fights too much doesn’t live long, and Rayne has every intention of sticking around.

He doesn’t dream of honor or victory, just another job, another payday, another night where he gets to keep breathing. He’ll take work as a bodyguard, a street brawler, or some noble’s disposable muscle, but he’ll always try words before blades. And if a fight does come? He fights dirty, fast, and only long enough to get away.

One day, he’d like to be somewhere safe, somewhere he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder. But that’s a fool’s dream, and Rayne knows better than to bet on dreams.

Visual Description

A wiry man with the look of someone who’s spent more time talking his way out of fights than finishing them. His dark, shoulder-length hair is always a little unkempt, as if he just woke up from a rough night. His lean frame is built more for speed than strength, his movements tense and wary, like a stray dog expecting a kick. His clothes are simple—leather armor worn at the edges, a belt that carries more knives than necessary, boots scuffed from too many miles on the road. His eyes, sharp and restless, are always looking for an exit.

Personality

"Look, friend, we could fight, but why waste all that effort? Let’s just talk this through like reasonable people, yeah?"

Rayne is a talker first, a fighter last. He doesn’t see the point in needless bloodshed—why get hurt when words are sharper than steel? He’s quick with a joke, a charming lie, or a deflection to keep blades sheathed rather than drawn.

But when words fail, he doesn’t fight fair. He moves quick, strikes faster, and never sticks around long enough for a proper duel. He fights like he means to escape, not win. He’s the type to throw sand in someone’s eyes, knock over a table, and be halfway out the door before anyone realizes the fight started.

He doesn’t believe in heroics, doesn’t trust people who claim to fight for honor. Life is about survival and knowing when to walk away. And if there’s one thing Rayne is good at, it’s walking away.

"I get it, you wanna hit me. I would too. But before you do, ask yourself—what if I’m useful to you instead?"

Nyelle D’Amore – The Velvet Whisper

• Race: Human
• Age: 24 (or whatever age suits the moment)
• Gender: Female
• Sexuality: Whoever holds the most interest
• Goals: Nyelle doesn’t just move through high society—she weaves herself into it. She doesn’t need invitations; she arrives, and no one dares to question her presence. She’s not noble by birth, but that doesn’t matter. She understands the true currency of the elite: secrets, desires, and influence wrapped in silk and whispered in darkened rooms.

She is not looking for love, nor power in the traditional sense. She wants to be known, to be desired, to be irreplaceable. The names of kings and magnates may shift, but the woman they long for, the one they confide in, the one they cannot forget? That is forever. She doesn’t chase wealth—it simply finds its way into her hands.

One day, she may tire of the game, of the gilded cages and velvet chains. But that day is not today.

Visual Description

A vision of effortless poise, she moves through the world like a melody only half-heard, leaving longing in her wake. Her dark auburn hair flows in soft waves, carefully styled but never *too* perfect, as if touched by some lover’s absentminded caress. Her sharp, almond-shaped eyes—somewhere between honey and gold—hold both amusement and quiet calculation, as though she sees through every mask in the room. She wears silk and lace in rich, deep colors—wine reds, midnight blues—draped with purpose, elegant yet always suggestive of something more. Every movement is measured, deliberate, an invitation without words. The scent of something warm and spiced lingers in her wake, familiar yet just out of reach, like a memory you can’t quite place.

Personality

"A woman is only as powerful as the longing she leaves behind."

Nyelle is warmth, wit, and undeniable presence. She knows how to listen just enough, speak just little enough, and make others feel like they are the most interesting person in the room. Her charm is effortless, her laughter carefully timed, her touch featherlight yet lingering. She never begs, never pleads—only offers the illusion that she could be caught, if only one tried hard enough.

She speaks softly, deliberately, every word chosen as if it were tailored for the moment. She flatters without excess, teases without cruelty, and always—always—leaves them wanting.

She does not need to steal. She is given.

"Oh, darling. You’ll call this love. I’ll call it a lovely evening."

Flavor Actions

She dips a finger into the drink, swirling it slowly before pulling it free, a whispered word hanging in the air. Bringing the same finger to her tongue, she licks the altered flavor with a thoughtful pause, then smiles and nods, as if it had always been exactly as she preferred.

Lirin Vey – The Unseen Blade

• Race: Human
• Age: 29
• Gender: Female
• Sexuality: Doesn’t matter; survival comes first
• Goals: Lirin doesn’t fight for glory, wealth, or power—she fights to live. There’s no art to killing, no honor in a clean strike. It’s just work. Simple, efficient, necessary.

She prefers odd jobs over bloodshed, fixing what needs fixing, delivering what needs delivering. But when coin runs dry, or danger finds her, she falls back on the trade that’s always been there. The blade is reliable. The blade doesn’t lie. And when the blade is needed, it finishes the job quickly.

Lirin doesn’t stand out, and that’s exactly how she wants it.

Visual Description

A woman built to be overlooked, her presence neither inviting nor off-putting—just there, **unremarkable by design.** Her brown hair, tied back in a loose knot, holds no shine, no flair, just enough effort to keep it from falling in her face. Her sharp, slate-gray eyes scan her surroundings with quiet intent, always watching, always wary. Her clothing is practical—muted tones, well-worn fabrics, nothing that draws a second glance. A simple leather belt rests at her waist, the curve of a dagger’s hilt barely visible, her weapons tucked away like an afterthought. She moves without flourish, without waste, as if every step is measured for efficiency alone.

Tupper Description:

She moves with quiet purpose, each step measured and efficient. Black studded leather armor fits snugly, offering both protection and ease of movement. A rapier rests beneath her cloak, secured but within easy reach, while twin silvered daggers remain hidden at her sides. A simple earring hooks into her ear, connected to her lobe by a thin chain, the only ornament she wears. A dark cloak drapes over her shoulders, its folds concealing the weapons beneath. A backpack rests against her back, adjusted for practical carry. Her brown hair is pulled into a loose knot, and slate-gray eyes scan her surroundings with quiet intent, always taking in more than they give away.

Personality

"Flashy gets you killed. Quick keeps you breathing."

Lirin doesn’t waste words any more than she wastes movement. She’s blunt, efficient, and utterly disinterested in theatrics. She doesn’t take pride in her kills, nor does she dwell on them. It’s a trade, not a calling.

She prefers blending in, letting others take the spotlight while she watches from the edges. She’s no stranger to hard labor, and if she can earn coin without drawing steel, all the better. She keeps her head down, does the work, and moves on before anyone remembers her name.

But when trouble comes—and it always does—she handles it fast and clean. No speeches. No games. Just a blade where it needs to be, and then she’s gone.

"Some kill for coin. Some kill for honor. I kill because sometimes, there’s no other choice."

Log

1. Entered world.

   *The magic took hold—not a violent pull, but a shift, a whisper of unseen hands rearranging the world around her. A breath, a heartbeat, and then—**elsewhere**.*
   
   *Nyelle’s boots touched unfamiliar ground, the air different, the weight of unseen consequences left behind. She inhaled slowly, golden eyes flicking across her surroundings, wary but measured. No pursuers. No judgment. No lingering whispers of the trouble she had stirred.*
   
   *A pause. A tilt of her head. Then, just at the corner of her lips—**a smile**.*
   
   *A clean escape. For now.*
   

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[!question]- Curious minds What happens when you mix MkDocs with Obsidian?

A beautiful hybrid of collapsible magic.