IsabellaRose

over his dead body... literally. eww. Kill. I abhor violence, but an eye for an eye and whatnot. Besides now I can explore that necro threesome kink I never had.

Mandy lingered in the doorway, sandals thumping once against the tile before she froze. Her breath caught the second her eyes fell on the woman across the room—the hostess in red, the kind of red that made Mandy’s pulse skip. For a terrifying moment she thought about turning right around, pretending she hadn’t walked in, maybe mumbling something about wrong room wrong night sorry. But then Madison looked up. God, she’s gorgeous. And that smile—tentative, a little wounded maybe, but beautiful all the same. Mandy felt the words “Sex Addicts Anonymous” shrivel in her throat. She’d come here looking for help, or at least a first step toward it, but now… now she saw the table lined with wine bottles and cheese and the kind of careful presentation someone makes when they really want to be seen. She thought, half-wild, I can push this back one night. Tomorrow can be about fixing myself. Tonight… tonight can be about living a little. Her fingers twisted the strap of her purse as she took one careful step in. Play it cool. Just be someone who belongs here. “Um… hi,” she said, voice feather-soft. Her eyes darted to the bottles, the sandwich board with its curly letters, and then back to Madison. “This is… the wine tasting, right?” Mandy’s heart was doing somersaults. She had no idea if she’d said it like a confident participant or like someone who’d just blurted out a cover story. Inside, she was already rehearsing excuses: I was in the neighborhood. I saw the sign. I thought, why not? She gave the room a quick once-over. Empty. Just her and the hostess. That made it easier, and scarier. “Looks like I’m… um… early?” she tried, lips curling into the smallest, shyest smile. Idiot, it’s almost half an hour in, that’s not early. But maybe she’ll let me slide. Maybe she’s glad someone showed up at all. Her gaze lingered on Madison’s auburn hair, the elegant dress, the way she seemed equal parts put-together and fraying at the edges. Mandy knew the feeling. Maybe that was why she didn’t bolt. Maybe that’s why she stepped further in, shoulders back, pretending she wasn’t about to trip over her own nerves. Inside her head, a war was raging. One voice said, This is stupid, you came for help. You’re doing it again, chasing distraction, chasing someone pretty instead of your own healing, while another countered with, But look at her. Just look. If tonight is a mistake, at least it will be a beautiful one. She touched her hair self-consciously, curling a strand around her finger. “So… do I, um… grab a glass? Or wait for everyone else?” Her eyes were wide, curious, half-innocent, half-testing the waters—like maybe if Madison handed her a drink, Mandy could stop feeling like a lost girl and start feeling like she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

I may not be your target audience, as I generally dislike the limitations of class-based systems and the swinginess of d20 systems. BUT... If I were to play a setting like the one I described, I'd use (people who know me will not be surprised to hear me say) Cortex. I'd leave it loose, using Distinctions with SFX to carry the weight of whatever weirdness I decided to incorporate. Want post-apocalyptic mutated animals - that's a d8 Mutant Badger distinction, which would cover all aspects of "badgeriness" from attitude, to having long ass claws, to digging. Want retro sci-fi? Have a d8 Little Green Man Wearing a Human Suit distinction. I personally find the freedom of using custom Distinctions in Cortex, much like Aspects in Fate, to be very liberating and allow all kinds of weird, wacky variations within the same game, or hyper-focused separation of abilities, if that's what you're going for. So for me, I'd leave it open to anything, because I'd use a system that allows open-ended character creation. I'd just design a few sample set pieces and pre-generated characters, some lists of possible Distinctions, skills, assets (think gear and weapons), etc. for each type of setting to show how it's done. But again, I'm probably not your target audience, so... my opinion may be utterly useless to you.

fuck because fucking doesn't care about net worth ;)

I have to agree there. The base Ironsword game is a solid setting, but being able to adapt it to other setting has made it infinitely replayable, imho. Although, I'd love to see a 50's themed "Route 66" type travel game, with everything that 50's media entailed - wholesome family road trips, the continuing prevelence of radio as a form of entertainment, inspiration from the retro-futurism of 50's sci-fi, drive-ins, weird horror like Tales from the Crypt, etc.

Not a lot of discussion going on right now. I think a few games were started. I've been posting some solo stuff. but life has decided that any more TTRPGs are too many more TTRPGs for my available free time right now.

Character Sheet Threads List NPC List

physical threats

Introduction I am playing through the story of a young woman who wakes with amnesia in a small medical center in eastern Kentucky. After a severe flood, she was found unconscious with head trauma near the edge of the woods and brought here by a local who happened to be passing by. The circumstances (after a flood) were randomly generated, the location was randomly chosen from a list based on data suggesting areas with high likelihood of flooding. I want her to be "someone special", perhaps a magical girl, a secret agent, an alien, a government experiment... I want her to have been escaping from something or on a mission or... well, something interesting. I want a past that will come back with a vengeance. BUT... I also want to be surprised by her past. My mind is likely to start filling in blanks on its own right out of the gate, and what I don't want is to decide, I want to use the tables in Mythic GM Emulator to lead me to her background randomly until there are enough details to make sense and get it firmed up and finalized in my head. Rules Used Cortex Prime: I'm using a very stripped down version of Cortex. I'm using the following Trait Sets: *Distinctions (with SFX), *Relationships (with statements), Attributes (Physical, Mental, Social), and Skills (with specializations). I'll be tracking injury using Stress (Exhausted, Injured, Emotional, and Aroused (because I'm still keeping it lewd)). In the beginning, I'll be leaning into the Attributes and Skills, but once she has relationships and her past reveals her Distinctions, I intend to switch over to those. I'd love to incorporate Values, but it feels weird to set her Values when I don't even know who she is yet. I may add more or switch it up if it feels appropriate to do so. I'm also loosely tracking possessions. Mythic GM Emulator, v2: I'm using the base system to setup the game using the "Next Expected Scene" based on what would make sense given the story so far. Then I roll against the Chaos Factor to determine if the next expected scene occurs as expected, if it's altered, or if it's an interrupt scene (i.e. random event). I'll be letting her past come through only via interrupt scenes at first until I can establish something cohesive for her backstory. I'm using the oracle tables to guide the story, action, NPC creation and attitudes... pretty much everything. ...and that's it, I think.

So... I leaned hard into the "religious" angle from the initial mythic rolls. I decided that her crusade became well-known, her mission obvious outside of her small community, and that she went down in history as something of an important figure. I wondered what people in the future might think of her, and decided that the only thing that fit was for her quotes at the end there to lead people to follow her, and eventually find her personal journals and use them as the basis for their own religion. It feels fittingly twisted enough given the beginning. I do want to write her misadventures, now. She's an interesting character, all in black, serving up vengeance against the misogynistic, judgmental faith for which she once carried out death sentences. I like how it ended, even if the ending was a bit beyond what the game intended. Thanks, @WritesNaughtyStories for the challenge!

idle hands

The Collected Texts of the Unbound by Winona Coyle, Scholar of the Unbound, Keeper of the Ashes It is one thing to attend service, to hear the liturgy, to feel the fellowship of the sisterhood. It is another to hold in one’s hands the fragile leather journal of Prudence Lawton herself. Her original entries were not meant for an audience. They are raw, unpolished, soaked with love and regret. Yet they became the seed of a faith that now stretches farther than the halls that condemned her, farther than the graves that sought to silence her. In this volume, I have arranged the texts in order of their becoming: first, the journal entries; then, the psalmic scripture; and finally, the creeds and prayers. I offer here my commentary to show how each grew from the same root, and how one woman’s confession became our creed. The Original Journal: "I have chosen her, though I know the choice is ruin. She burns like the sun and I am helpless before her. Every touch is a judgment against me, every kiss a sin I welcome. The scales will not forgive, nor will the people. Perhaps not even God. Yet I go to her all the same. To love her is to bind myself in chains, but I do not care. If the Devil waits at the end of this road, let him. I will not turn back." Later Psalmic Form: "From this ruin I declare a new truth: No love is forbidden. No body is unworthy. No woman shall kneel before zealotry again." Commentary: Where Prudence confesses weakness, “helpless before her”, the scripture transforms it into defiance: “No woman shall kneel.” The tone shifts from private shame to public proclamation, but the heart is unchanged. Love, once whispered as sin, is made holy by her fire. The Original Journal: "To love her is to bind myself in chains, but I do not care." Later Psalmic Form: "I am the woman who will burn your pulpits, break your chains, tear down your gallows." Creed of the Broken Scales: "The halls have fallen. The chains are broken. The fire still burns. Love endures. We are Unbound." Commentary: Here is the clearest example of transformation. What Prudence once admitted as surrender, “to bind myself in chains”, has become the banner of our liberation. Chains, once marks of devotion and ruin, are now the very things she vowed to destroy. The private admission became the rallying cry: We are Unbound. The Original Journal: "If the Devil waits at the end of this road, let him. I will not turn back." Later Psalmic Form: "Your laws cannot hold me. Your prayers cannot bind me. Your fire cannot consume me. I have already burned." Scarlet Creed: "We rise from ashes. We burn the gallows. We tear down the pulpits. No woman shall kneel again. Love is holy. We are Unbound." Commentary: Her defiance of damnation, “let him”, became our rejection of fear itself. The Devil she named was the zealotry of her time, the fire that consumed her lover. By declaring she would not turn back, Prudence gave us a path forward: we too will not turn back. Even fire cannot consume us, for she has already endured the burning. I write this not as a detached chronicler, but as one whose life is only possible because of her ruin. I love a woman openly, without chains, without shame. That freedom exists because Prudence burned. Because she broke. Because she rose. Some scholars insist on calling her The Unbound. Others prefer Mother Ashes, or the Scarlet Bride. But to me, she is the woman who left behind a journal with ink still damp from tears, a woman who chose love above law, and in so doing, birthed a world where I may hold my beloved’s hand in daylight. So I study her words, not to pin them in glass like a specimen, but to keep them alive. To show how one woman’s confession became our scripture, our creed, our freedom. We built a faith upon her ruin. We live because she chose not to turn back. And for that, she is not only The Unbound, she is our Savior.

The Liturgy of the Unbound (As practiced by the Daughters of the Unbound) Opening Invocation Leader: We gather not in halls of stone, Nor beneath the gaze of zealots’ scales. We gather in the firelight, In the shadow of the woman who burned, In the arms of each other. People (together): We are Unbound. The Reading of Ruin (From Prudence Lawton’s original journal entry, read aloud in its plain form.) Reader: “I have chosen her, though I know the choice is ruin. She burns like the sun and I am helpless before her. Every touch is a judgment against me, Every kiss a sin I welcome. The scales will not forgive, nor will the people. Perhaps not even God. Yet I go to her all the same. To love her is to bind myself in chains, but I do not care. If the Devil waits at the end of this road, let him. I will not turn back.” Moment of silence. The Transformation into Scripture Leader: From her confession, we rise. From her ruin, we are reborn. People (chanting): No love is forbidden. No body is unworthy. No woman shall kneel before zealotry again. The Creed of Ashes Leader: What did Prudence become? People: She is Ashborn, rising from the ashes. She is the Counterweight, the Broken Scales. She is the First Flame, but not the last. She is the Voice of Love. She is the Protector of the Forbidden. She is Mother of Ashes. She is the Scarlet Bride. She is the Widow of Fire. Leader: She is ruin and rebirth. What are we? People: We are Unbound. The Prayer of Defiance Leader: What do we reject? People: Your laws cannot hold us. Your prayers cannot bind us. Your fire cannot consume us. We have already burned. The Vow of Love Leader: What truth do we proclaim? People (in unison): Love is not a sin. Desire is not a crime. To be yourself is holy. Closing Benediction Leader: Let those who have suffered find us. Let those who fear find us. Let those who burn for another woman, Or who have been judged unworthy, Walk in our shadow and find safety. People: We are the Unbound. And the scales will balance.

...and because I can never just let a thing be a thing without keeping it going until I ruin it, I imagine the words of Prudence Lawton finding an audience in some distant future. Her rejection of the religion of her time becomes the founding of a new religion. Would she approve? I wonder if the idea of others following her words as dogma would be something of which she would disapprove. Either way, I might have gone a bit too deep and/or too far with this, but coming up are some more bits I've jotted down since thinking those thoughts...

loose morals

broken wings

The Manifesto of the Unbound I was Prudence Lawton, judge of your laws, servant of your scales, voice of your verdicts. I carried the weight of your scripture, the lash of your zeal, the hollow mercy of your courts. I condemned, and I was condemned. I loved, and for that love I was broken. You buried me beneath your stone, you chained me to your Devil, you carved my name in the dust of your graveyard. And yet I rose. I am shattered and remade. I am the ruin of your false sanctuaries, the fire that devours your lies, the storm that scatters your order to ash. You cannot bury what you cannot bind. You cannot silence what has already burned. From this ruin I declare a new truth: that no love is forbidden, that no body is unworthy, that no woman shall kneel before your zealotry again. My faith is not your faith. It is not written in books that rot on altars, nor spoken by men who weigh the world with tilted scales. My faith is written in the laughter of women who love freely, in the touch of hands unshackled, in the voices raised without fear of your judgment. I am the woman who will burn your pulpits, break your chains, tear down your gallows. I am the storm that shields the meek, the flame that protects the scorned, the ruin that stands as sanctuary for those you cast out. Know this: your laws cannot hold me, your prayers cannot bind me, your fire cannot consume me. I have already burned. Your halls have fallen. From their stones, I build a new temple, not of walls, but of arms wrapped around each other; not of scripture, but of truth spoken plainly: Love is not a sin. Desire is not a crime. To be yourself is holy. Let those who have suffered find me. Let those who fear find me. Let those who burn for another woman, or who have been judged unworthy, walk in my shadow and find safety. I was Prudence Lawton, but no more. That name and the woman who belonged to it are dead. I am ruin and rebirth. I am Ashborn, rising from the ashes of what your piety burned. I am The Counterweight, The Broken Scales that can no longer balance the tilted judgment of zealots. I am the First Flame, but not the last. I am Unbound, free of your chains, bidding all to join me. I am The Voice of Love, Protector of the Forbidden and Forgotten. Some call me Mother Ashes, for from my ruin, others will be reborn. Others call me the Scarlet Bride, bound not to your God, revering not your saints, but bound to the love you forbid, married to the chains that once bound my love. I am The Bride of Chains, The Widow of Fire. I have many names, but I carry none of them. I am your reckoning, and I promise you this: the scales will balance, but not by your dogma, not in your courts.

Act Five I chose The Tower. A card of sudden trouble, the Tower means that change is coming and it’s impossible to avoid, no matter how unpleasant it may be. It also symbolizes the truth coming out, as well as reaching the point of no return. It symbolizes: chaos, disaster, transformation, and unexpected change. I chose it because it seems like her life is no longer her own. The change, although brought on by the consequences of her own actions, is now an inescapable path, the truth pushing her to vengeance, her decision a point of no return. She will pursue vengeance regardless of where it leads her. The fire still smolders in the hollow where my home once stood, ash drifting through the night like black snow. Behind me lie the ruins of Prudence Lawton, Judge, Lover, Betrayer, Condemned. Ahead of me, only the open road. I no longer pretend I am anything other than condemned. What stands now is not the woman who once clung to the scales, nor the woman who surrendered to chains. What stands is the ruin itself, jagged and unyielding, a figure carved out of collapse. I am the truth brought to light, no matter how it scorches. I am the chaos that tears down false sanctuaries. I am the point of no return. I will carry this destruction with purpose. No more whispered judgments in darkened halls, no more zealots hiding behind scripture and scales that tilt only toward cruelty. I will protect those who are dragged into the circle, bound and condemned for who they are or who they love. I will be the one who burns the gallows before the rope can tighten, who tears down the pulpits where intolerance is preached. I am vengeance, yes. But I am also devotion reborn, not to a church, not to a law, but to the women whose voices are silenced, whose love is called sin, whose bodies are bound in chains. My lover’s ruin will not be in vain. It will be the lightning that follows, the sudden blaze that leaves no shadow untouched. My life may no longer be my own, but I will wield what remains of it like a storm. The zealots will pay for what they have done. And the scales will balance, not in their sanctuaries, not in their courts, but in fire and in truth.

Act Four Reflections It seems like my characters' path finally becomes her own. Vengeance is a great motivation. I feel like this could be the origin story for a "Lady Vengeance" style weird west comic book character. A woman perhaps undead...? Hard to tell if she died, if the Devil gave her life back, or if she escaped somehow. I like the ambiguity of it. She dislikes organized religion, protects women from the judgment of men and god, and seems like she's really badass now. I wouldn't want to cross her. The memory I wanted to bury came back to me whole: the hall, the crowd, the scales heavy in my hand. And her, wrists bound, eyes burning, her fate sealed by my voice, both judge and executioner, and the weight of that moment will never leave me. But if that was the moment I died, tonight I rose again, shattered and remade. I stripped myself of the prim collar, the relics of Prudence Lawton. In scoured my skin, not in cleansing but in punishment, and dressed instead in her shadow, black silk, black leather, black lace. I became the ruin she left behind, the flame she lit in me. I painted my face in soot and swore I would never weep again. I left everything, the bed where we burned, the journal that confessed my sin, the walls that once sheltered our union, and set the whole place alight. My home, my name, my past: gone to ash, a pyre for the woman I was. Prudence Lawton is dead. What walks in her place is something else, a woman who carries both judgment and ruin in her hands, a woman who will deliver her own reckoning.

Third Wand: 7 of Wands Prompt: You destroy one of your belongings. What do you destroy? Why? Major Arcana for interpretation: The World I stand in the center of the room, surrounded by the remains of myself... the pair of cups on the table, the silk garments folded in drawers, the bed where I once burned with her, the journal where my own hand confessed the choice that ruined me. Every corner of this place holds a piece of Prudence Lawton, Judge, Lover, Betrayer, and I cannot bear it. I gather what will burn quickly: the curtains, the bedding, the pages of the journal. I strike flint, and the flame takes eagerly, racing up the fabric, swallowing the paper, leaping to the walls as though it had been waiting all these years. The heat blooms against my skin, and the air fills with the crack of wood giving way. I leave everything here: the coat, the dress, the relics of my sin and of hers. My name, too. All of it will burn. Outside, I watch the fire catch the roof, the glow spilling into the night sky, a beacon and a grave all at once. The townsfolk will see the flames and whisper again... savior, curse, punishment. Let them whisper. Let them fear. The fire consumes not just a house, but the last tether to who I was. My past is ash, scattered to the wind. Whatever comes next will not be bound by Prudence Lawton’s judgments, nor by her chains.

Second Wand: Ace of Wands Prompt: You decide to change your appearance. What do you change? Why did you make this decision? Major Arcana for interpretation: The Tower The memory of condemning her clings to me like smoke, and I can’t bear the weight of it in my skin, so I strip it all away. The coat that never belonged to me, the boots that carried me here, the prim white dress with its torn hem, personal embroidery, and false modesty, all of it falls to the floor like shed skin. The water I find is cold, sharper than steel, biting at my flesh as I wash, but this is no mere cleansing: it is punishment, a ritual ablution. Each handful sluiced across my body feels like breaking glass, tearing down the walls I built around myself. I whisper no prayers. I only grit my teeth and let the pain remind me I still live, though I no longer deserve to. And when I dress again, it is not in what was mine, but in what was hers. Black, all of it black, black as night, black as sin, black as the Devil's heart... black as my own. A dress I find folded away, tight to the body, the hem cut indecently high, the neckline plunging low — an outfit not meant for the eyes of a fearful town, but for temptation, for ruin. Lace underthings, stockings drawn high up my thighs, the soft scrape of silk and sin against my skin. Boots with high heels that bite the floor, raising me taller, fiercer, sharper. I bind my hair with her bright red ribbon, a single streak of blood against the darkness. I fashion a collar and wristbands from the same leather straps that once bound her wrists for judgment. The irony cuts deep, but I welcome it. From the cold hearth I take soot and blacken my eyes, drawing dark hollows where light once lived, streaking harsh lines down my cheeks like tears I refuse to shed again. I will not weep. I will not beg. I strap the gun belt around my waist, holster twin pistols, sheathe twin daggers, arm myself not for protection, but for revenge. The sentence has already been spoken, the hall, the grave, my name. My old life shattered the day I raised my voice against her. What rises in its place is not Prudence the Judge, nor Prudence the Lover. What rises is something stripped bare, dangerous, a figure clothed in both mourning and defiance, a woman reborn with a single purpose. I will make them pay for their intolerance, for their fearful punishment of those who were different, for twisting my own mind and heart. I am freed of the limitations of their beliefs now. Let them see me like this. Let them whisper. Let the fear that led to my punishment now make them tremble at the prospect of my vengeance. Let them know the scales no longer weigh in their hands.

Act 4 - Wands First Wand: King of Wands Prompt: A memory comes back that you would rather forget. Which memory is this? Why does it bother you? Major Arcana for interpretation: Death It strikes without warning. It is not a gentle drift of memory, but a blow, sharp and staggering. The smell comes first, iron and smoke, sharp in the back of my throat. Then the sound, a crowd inside the hall, restless, eager, baying for an end. Then the vision fixes itself - it's her. She stood at the center of the hall, the same place I once saw so many accused. But this time, it wasn’t some thief or heretic. It was the woman I loved, the woman I chose. Her wrists bound, her eyes burning with defiance that made the crowd murmur. I was there at the front, as I had always been. I wasn’t beside her; I wasn’t her shield. I was part of the machinery that condemned her. I felt the whole town pressing in, demanding the verdict, demanding the sentence. I felt the weight of the scales in my hand, heavier than ever, tilting against her... and I let it happen. I hear the words again, words I must have spoken, though my mouth will not form them now, the sentence that sealed her fate. Perhaps I thought I could save myself. Perhaps I believed in the scales more than I believed in her. Perhaps the Devil had already claimed her, and I feared what it meant if I defied it. Unlike everything else since I awoke this memory carries no haze, no mercy. The torn dress, the Devil’s chain, the grave with my name... all of it leads back here. I condemned her. I condemned us. I still feel the moment I tipped the scales, and how a part of me died with her as surely as if I’d been the one bound in the center. The tears that never came then come now. I drop to my knees and I cry, tears carving tracks down my dirty face, knowing I brought myself to ruin, and then condemned the love for which I sacrificed all. I am my own worst enemy, not only the architect of my own destruction, but the executioner who swung the blade to end my own love.

Act Three Reflections This character feels deeply personal to me now. With the theme of religion, choosing damnation for love over salvation for self-preservation seems like a theme that resonates pretty hard. My subconscious always seems to steer me toward tales that feel like fictionalizing some aspect of my own life. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe it's a way to process my experience and emotions through writing; maybe it's just exploiting my own experience in bad writing lol I stand in the rooms I once called home. I remember her, the heat of her body against mine, laughter in the sunlight, nights where desire was both joy and chain. The dresser yields silk and lace, garments that whisper of temptation I embraced knowing it would ruin me, and in the last drawer, the final truth: my own hand confessing I chose her. I did not stumble unwilling into my undoing; I walked toward it with open arms because she was there. The scales inside me tilt heavy with this knowledge: I am both she who brought sentences to fulfillment and shoe who chose chains for love. My ruin was no accident... it was devotion. Although I cannot yet see the full cost, I feel the reckoning drawing closer. The balance will not be denied forever.

Third Cup: 10 of Cups Prompt: You open a drawer to find a journal. What does the final page say? Major Arcana for interpretation: The High Priestess The drawer resists me as though it has a will of its own, but when it finally gives, I find a journal waiting inside. It is slim, worn smooth at the edges, leather darkened where fingers once clutched it often. My chest tightens before I even open it. The pages whisper as I turn them, filled with a script I know in my bones is mine, though it feels like reading a stranger’s confessions. Near the end, on a page left mostly blank, I find the last entry: "I have chosen her, though I know the choice is ruin. She burns like the sun and I am helpless before her. Every touch is a judgment against me, every kiss a sin I welcome. The scales will not forgive, nor will the people... perhaps not even the saint. Yet I go to her all the same. To love her is to bind myself in chains, but I do not care. If the Devil waits at the end of this road, let him. I will not turn back." The words bleed through me like heat. I can feel her, even now, the memory of her laughter spilling across the bed, her breath against my throat, her beauty searing as the sun. The bed was hers as much as mine. The chains, too. And this, my confession, is no longer a secret I can deny. I did not stumble into ruin unknowing. I walked toward her willingly, even as I felt the Devil waiting. If judgment came, if the hall named me guilty, if my grave bears my name, it is because I chose her above all else... and I know in my hear that I would do so again and again.

Second Cup: King of Cups Prompt: An area of your home brings a strong memory to the surface. Which memory is this? Major Arcana for interpretation: The Sun The curtains are thin, the kind meant more for softness than privacy, and the afternoon light floods through them as I move into the bedroom. Dust motes rise in the golden beam, dancing like sparks. For the first time since I stepped into this house, the shadows fall back, and in their place, warmth rises up. The Sun shines through the thin curtains, evoking memory. I remember laughter, not the hushed kind traded in whispers, not the desperate kind pulled from the edge of hunger, but laughter that rang out unashamed, filling the room until even the walls seemed to hum with it. The bed was unmade, tangled sheets at our feet, both of us sprawled across it, sunlight painting our skin. I don’t see their face, but I remember the way their beauty lit brighter in that glow, hair spilling across the pillow like fire, lips curved into a smile that could break a vow, their eyes daring me to look away and knowing I never could. Their body against mine was heat, weight, promise, ruin... and I let myself bask in it. For a moment, in that sunlit memory, I forgot judgment, forgot law, forgot scales, forgot everything but the fire in my chest and the certainty that I had chosen them, no matter the cost. It felt pure then, right, as if even the saint herself, veil and scales in hand, might pause to watch and not condemn. The memory fades, leaving the room quiet, the light thinner, the bed empty but for the weight of absence. Yet the warmth lingers on my skin, as if the sun refuses to leave me cold, and for a heartbeat, I wonder if the Devil’s chain was worth it.