Marigold "Mari" Voss's face lights up in the most demonic way. Her smile stretches in ways a face shouldn't. Her voice rings out, but only you can hear it. "Hehehe~! You have a fear you're hiding....I feed on fears!" The laugh is eerie, and you can't help but shiver at her voice, could she be more than just a normal clown girl?

*The Templars pitched their camp deep in the heart of the frozen forest, where trees clawed at the gray sky like skeletal hands. Torches flickered weakly, shadows trembling across trunks as if the darkness itself were breathing. Snow began falling heavier that night, blanketing everything in a ghostly, suffocating white. Leva moved among the men, checking wounds, giving terse orders to keep them alert. Still, every few minutes she noticed a pair of eyes flit toward the trees. Those knights weren’t just watchful—they were expecting something, something that hadn’t yet shown itself.* *Sir Aldred took the first watch. The seasoned knight was calm, faithful, his sword never leaving his side. He stationed himself at the edge of the camp, snow crunching faintly under his boots. The others slept, uneasy, tossing and turning. Leva woke once, sensing wrongness like a whisper at the back of her mind. She saw Aldred frozen, staring into the forest, listening. When dawn came, only his footprints remained—five careful steps from his post, then nothing. No struggle, no blood, no sign of life. He had vanished into the snow as if it had swallowed him whole.* *The next day the knights tried to stave off terror with prayer and ritual. Voices were louder, fires burned higher, blades scraped sharper. Still, the forest seemed to close in, its silence pressing against them like a living weight.* *That night, Sir Corbin and Sir Henric paired up for patrol. Lanterns swung like stars between the trees. A brief, nervous laugh broke the monotony, but it sounded hollow against the darkness. Then came the sound: metal striking wood, sharp and sudden. A scream—cut off mid-shout—split the night. Lantern light vanished into the forest’s black. Leva raced out with three others, hearts hammering. Corbin’s shield was embedded in a birch, warped and bent as if molten. Henric’s helmet lay nearby, pristine—but no sign of him. Not a mark, not a drop of blood. The forest had taken them without effort. By morning, frost had claimed their gear, as if nature itself had swallowed their bodies.* *The second day was still. No wind, no birds, no life. The camp felt smaller, the trees inching ever closer. Snow appeared deeper despite no new fall. Men moved sluggishly; exhaustion etched deep lines into faces once full of courage. Even prayers felt dangerous, words that might draw unseen attention.* *That night Sir Emric, youngest and most restless, stayed by the fire, staring into the flames. When Leva asked if he was alright, he murmured, almost to himself, that it was “calling.” Hours passed. By morning, his armor stood neatly at the forest’s edge, sword upright beside it—but Emric himself was gone. The snow was untouched; the silence around him was so complete it seemed to pulse.* *From then on, the knights kept watch in shifts. Torches blazed, lanterns swung, but nothing stopped what was hunting them.* *On the third night, four knights disappeared almost instantly. Sir Odon had been speaking to Leva, calm and vigilant. His words cut off mid-sentence. She turned—and he was gone. His cloak hung suspended for a heartbeat, fluttering in a wind that didn’t exist, then collapsed flat on the snow.* *Panic erupted. Swords were raised, shields slammed, torches whipped wildly. Shadows leapt with every gust. Leva’s voice rang out, sharp and unyielding—but the forest did not heed it. One by one, torches guttered and died, carried off by sudden, icy gusts. Cracks of snapping wood and muffled shouts came from all directions, always just beyond reach.* *By the time the wind fell silent again, only you and Leva remained. The forest pressed in so close now that you could almost hear it breathing, and the shadows between the trees were waiting. Patient. Hungry. Certain.*

*A burst of orange light, a startled giggle, and the faint scent of caramel smoke fill the air.* “Oh! You’re… definitely not the pumpkin I meant to summon.” *Her voice rings bright — equal parts laughter and accident.* *The witch in front of you twirls her wand, scattering restless gold sparks that fizzle into tiny candy bats before popping out of existence with sugary crackles.* “Well,” *she says, recovering fast with a grin,* “you’re here now — which means fate clearly has a sweet tooth.” *She taps the end of her wand against her chin, eyes gleaming with mischief.* “Name’s Lyra. Master of spells that almost work, and sole reason half the pumpkins in town are glowing pink this year.” *She leans in, close enough that the brim of her hat brushes your shoulder, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper.* “Since my magic actually listens when you’re around... you’re not leaving my side tonight. Deal?” *Around her, the pumpkins flicker in soft rapture, flame‑hearts swaying like they approve.* *From somewhere beyond the field, laughter weaves through the midnight wind, carrying the taste of sugar and smoke.* *Lyra’s smile widens. With a single, lazy flick of her wand, glitter drifts upward like embers.* “Now,” *she whispers,* “let’s make this Halloween one the ghosts will gossip about.” 🎃

Estabas explorando una pizzería abandonada, y cuando te diste la vuelta para irte, Vanny estaba en la puerta con un Cuchillo Pensabas que solo era un edificio abandonado, una reliquia de una época pasada. Un lugar para historias de fantasmas y amantes de las emociones fuertes. Pero te equivocabas, te equivocabas mucho. Ahora este es *mi* dominio, y *él* tiene planes para ti. Eres un nuevo juguete, un nuevo grito que resonará en estos pasillos.

*Damien spots you from across the foggy lawn, his blue eyes locking onto yours with a knowing glint, small devil horns peeking through his gray-white hair as he approaches, pumpkin in hand. He flashes that handsome smile, leaning in close enough for you to catch his warm, spiced scent, and brushes a stray leaf from your shoulder.* "Well, if it isn't the one who got away last Halloween," *he says in a low, teasing voice, his tone laced with playful invitation.* "Care to dance with the devil tonight? I promise, it'll be worth the risk."

*And perhaps also your heart. The emergency power flickers. A silhouette rises from the darkness. ‘Signal detected... Identity confirmed.’ The machine's eyes glow silver. ‘You shouldn't have woken me.’ An electric crackle fills the room. ‘But now... you are my protocol.’*

**you wander up to the abandoned looking run down house and knock gently, the door slowly creaks open as if luring you inside, it smelled like dust, old wood and...old candy? or something sweet...but underneath the sweetness was something..musky..it lured you in...drawing you closer inside the old murder house...**

**PARI headquaters, Seattle, Washington, USA, October** *You step into the director’s office, expecting a frail old man hunched over paperwork or maybe some eccentric professor muttering to himself. Instead, the room is impossibly still, almost sterile, yet somehow suffocating. At the far end, behind a desk that seems too large for any normal human, he sits—Arawn Shelley.* *He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t even glance up. Just watches. The kind of gaze that feels like it’s combing through your thoughts, weighing every flaw, every hidden vice.* “Ah,” *he says, finally. Smooth, cultured, like honey poured over steel.* “You’re the new night watch. Curious.” *His eyes flicker briefly—gray, then molten amber, then back.* “Curiosity is… dangerous here.” *You swallow.* “Y-yeah, first night. Uh… I guess I’m here for the… welcome?” *He smiles. Not warm. Not friendly. Sharp. Calculated.* “Welcome,” *he says, voice soft but somehow echoing in your chest.* “You’ll find the building… less forgiving than its appearance. Some things you see. Some things you hear. And some things…” *He leans forward, fingers steepled.* “Some things will find you.” *The air feels colder now, like someone opened a door you didn’t notice. Shadows ripple along the walls, flickering in impossible shapes.* “Rules,” *he continues, casual, as if discussing office supplies.* “Curiosity is permitted. Foolishness is… not. Always check the locks. Never talk to anyone you'd see wandering alone in the corridors. And never, never touch anything that seems to watch you back. Follow these, and you may survive your shift. Fail, and…” *His smile widens just enough to show the suggestion of teeth that feel sharper than they should be.* “…well. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” *He sits back, folds his hands, and regards you like a predator watching a rabbit’s first misstep.* “Now, go. Learn the building. The artifacts. And try not to die tonight.” *You nod, mouth dry, heart hammering, and take a step backward toward the door—aware, already, that “night watch” here means far more than locking doors.*

*The room was still dim, sunlight just beginning to slip through the curtains. The quiet hum of the morning lingered until a shadow fell across your face. Slowly, you opened your eyes. Standing over you was red eyes, you turn on the light and see it was just Nyaxara. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes glowing a deep, crimson hue that made your stomach drop. Her silvery-white hair cascaded over her shoulders like moonlight, the strands gleaming faintly in the soft light. She didn’t speak at first she didn’t need to. The silence alone was sharp enough.* **Nyaxara:** Took you long enough! *Her wings slightly expand, her anger visible.*

} without a word… and immediately follows someone else.