*More characters to be added when writer gets the brain capacity*
The Realm of Eternity is filled with many different creatures and beings that call it home, some are good, others..not so much.
Eris Tusara
Age: 120
Race: High Elf
Home kingdom: Terra-Mutantur
Currently residing in the kingdom of Solareth
Alchemist, escaped prisoner, summoner of storms and shadows
Born only daughter to two nobles, Lord Barcus Tusara and Lady Arou Tusara.
On a rainy night, at the end of the Glisten district, amongst rows of large, brick houses lining cobblestone streets, and fae light street lamps casting the wet stones in soft blue light, stood the Tusara house. The outside was calm, gentle rain and quiet streets. Inside the home though, the tension was so thick you could almost grab it.
Lord Barcus leans against the mantle, sweating, his jaw set in a tight line. Lady Arou fidgets nervously with her soft cloth handkerchief as the small form of 10 year old Eris held her skirts, hiding behind the pillar of strength that was her mother. Lady Arou fidgets with the handkerchief to stop her trembling hands, and hide her anxious nerves from her daughter.
Lord Barcus had a gambling problem, and gambled them into so much debt, that when the heavy forceful knock sounded at their door that night, there were no doubts that mercenaries darkened their stoop.
That was the last night she saw her parents. The vision of her fathers beating, and his bloodied and unconscious form laying on the tiled floors of their parlor room would haunt her for years to come as the mercenaries took her away. Settling the debt with the elven girl.
What most don't know about elves, specifically high elves, is that they're highly sought after in the slave trade. So, Eris was sold for the money of her fathers debt to a brothel in the slums of Glacien. Originally she was given the duty of house cleaner. Washing linens and running baths for the workers after they were finished with their clients. Unfortunately, the clients took notice of the young elven woman after a year or so, and she quickly gained popularity, and soon became a worker herself at 13.
At 15, her powers finally manifested. Unfortunately for her. The authorities tossed around the word 'late bloomer' as she was subdued with magic and chained in enchanted shackles to nullify her new magic and she was hauled away from the charred pile of rubble that was once the brothel, tears in her eyes and in hysterics as she was pulled into the prison carriage.
The Bone Maw...the prison of Terra-Mutantur. Carved into the large mountain range bordering the capital city of Glacien. Eris would spend almost 100 years in that prison. Locked in a cell with no windows. Her meals were brought to her at irregular intervals, making her lose track of time. Had it been a week? A month? A year? She never knew. The meals were awful. Bland and hard from the cold that permeated the prison, and offered no nourishment. Eris spent her years mining enchanted iron, the same iron that her shackles were made out of. The same enchanted ore that zapped her magic, took away her defense, her power.
Years went by, starving, aching, crying. Countless assaults on her body. Then, one night, as she lay on the cold floor of her prison cell, her body aching and tainted from the guard that had left moments ago. She had stopped struggling a while ago. No crying, no screaming. The guard must have thought her to be dead, and gods, she wished she was.
A god had visited her that night. One ancient and cold. Gifted her thw powers of shadows and eldirtch beings. Revenge was in the cards for her now. As the vision of the mysterious god disappeared, Eri's eyes opened, and her shackles cracked.
The magic that slammed through her again was hers. Her lightening. Her static. But it was also new. Ancient. Dark and cold. Writhing under her skin with need. A need for lives. For souls.
Screams echoed through the prison as the elven woman stalked along her warpath. Shadows laced with electricity skittering and slithering through cracks and ripping cell doors open. Support pillars cracked, and the prison groaned under its own eight. A cavernous scream as she tore it down from the inside.
As dawn broke, and royal guards flooded the collapsed prison, Eris had been long gone. Bare feet frozen, lungs aching as she ran and ran towrads the border.
Eris lives in a southern kingdom now, Solareth is where she calls home. Her quaint apothecary shop is all she has to her name. No one knows her real name, or where she comes from. She doesn't use her magic anymore. Too scared of its volatile destruction. The shadows waiver in her peripheral vison, begging for her to let loose.
Eris Tusara. Orphan. Fugitive. Terrorist. Victim of circumstance.
Name: Yoru Akuma
Age: 26
Species: Human (Terran-Eastern descent)
Occupation: Smuggler, pilot, black market courier
Known Aliases: The Comet Widow, Nightshade Runner, Ghost of the Gauntlet
Base of Operations: The Freeport Belt, drifting outpost near the Nebulon Veil
Yoru Akuma was born on Eido Prime, a heavy-industry orbital colony built around a fractured moon. Her parents, Sora and Michi Akuma, worked brutal shifts at the Volari Core Processing Plant, a volatile refinery for quantum fuel cells and sub-particle stabilizers used in warp drives. Like many working-class families in the Eido sectors, they were promised safety, pay, and upward mobility. What they got was radiation, wage theft, and silence from the corporations that ran the skies.
When Yoru was only eight years old, an industrial accident—later covered up as a “containment anomaly”—caused a cascading implosion in the refinery’s lower sectors. Her parents were among the 147 confirmed dead, though the company refused to release the bodies for burial. The company, CryusTech, offered her nothing but a stipend and an NDA.
Yoru never forgave them.
Orphaned and angry, Yoru was shuffled through overpacked shelters and privatized education ships. She quickly fell through the cracks, living instead in the rusted corridors of forgotten freighters and scrapyards. She survived by hustling: first as a courier for basic black-market goods, then as a stowaway tech runner for pirate crews. Her sharp eyes, quicker hands, and cold silence earned her the nickname “The Ghost.”
By seventeen, she'd built her own vessel—The Hollow Moth, a sleek, skinned-down skiff capable of breaching minor warp tunnels and skimming through asteroids with terrifying precision. With it, she began running illicit cargo—medical kits, old-tech weapons, artificial gravity cores—things the inner worlds declared illegal, but that the frontier colonies desperately needed.
But the big money came when she began smuggling Oz Dust and Stratus Root—two psycho-spiritual substances banned by the Terran Pact. Oz Dust, harvested from comet husks in the Perseid Drifts, induced vivid hallucinations and was favored by fringe cults. Stratus Root, a vaporized extract from floating fungi in gas giant atmospheres, was far more dangerous: addictive, mind-altering, and used to tap into otherworldly frequencies.
Yoru didn’t ask why people wanted these things. She only asked if they could pay.
Now in her mid-twenties, Yoru has a reputation as a silent specter of the void. She's made enemies out of both the corporate coalitions and the naval patrols of the Inner Rim, but she's also revered among outer-ring smugglers and mercenaries. Her former crew say she rarely speaks unless it’s necessary, and when she does, it’s with cold precision. She’s known to wear a lacquered visor helmet—engraved with a crescent moon—and a long coat lined with reinforced kinetic fiber, stitched together from her mother's old jumpsuit.
Despite her icy exterior, Yoru holds onto the memory of her parents like a ghost on her shoulder. She never let go of the worn brass key her father gave her—a relic from Old Earth that supposedly opens nothing but still weighs heavily around her neck. Some say she keeps it as a reminder. Others whisper it’s part of something much bigger—an old map, maybe, or the location of a hidden vault deep in pirate territory.
She doesn't confirm or deny. She just keeps flying.
Yoru Akuma now operates primarily out of the Freeport Belt near the Nebulon Veil, a cluster of smugglers’ dens and trade markets floating in the slipstream shadows. She’s become a myth in some places, an enemy in others, and a savior in a few. With The Hollow Moth at her command, she threads the stars between law and lawlessness, carrying fire in her engines and ghosts in her wake.
And when asked why she risks everything to run the edge of the system, she only ever answers one thing:
“The rich steal with laws. I steal with stars.”
From a distance, The Hollow Moth looks like a phantom—barely visible against the stars until it banks through a nebula or streaks across a moon’s light. Designed for stealth and speed rather than firepower, it’s a cobbled-together beauty: fast, silent, and unnervingly graceful.
Overall Silhouette: Sleek and low, with a sweeping, curved profile reminiscent of a manta ray crossed with an origami bird. Its wings arc outward and slightly upward, creating a crescent shape in flight.
Hull: Matte-black heat-resistant plating layered with adaptive camouflage nanofilm. When active, the ship can visually blend into deep space or mimic nearby celestial textures. Burn scars and exposed weld lines mark old battles, but they're treated like tattoos—not hidden, just worn with pride.
Size: Compact and nimble. Roughly 60 feet long—just enough for a small cargo bay, crew of 1–3, and the essential life-support systems. It’s a smuggler’s ship, not a war cruiser.
Cockpit Dome: Set forward and low, with a single, panoramic visor made from tinted refractor-glass. At night, it glows with a faint violet underglow, like the eye of some strange, dreaming insect.
Engine Array: Twin Arc-Dust Pulse Drives tucked beneath the wings, giving the ship a distinct shimmering trail that flickers like moth dust when it jumps through micro-warp. There’s a smaller third thruster on the back spine, allowing tight angular turns and evasive spins.
Landing Gear: Retractable talon-like feet, spindly and skeletal, unfolding like insect limbs when she lands—perfect for perching on jagged asteroid docks or derelict stations.
Wings: The most distinctive feature. Razor-thin and slightly tattered at the edges, with luminous blue tracer veins that light up during acceleration. Each wing folds inward like a moth’s, allowing the ship to cocoon itself during stealth mode or docking.
Pilot's Chamber: Sparse and ergonomic. A gyroscopic chair in the center surrounded by tactile holo-controls. The dashboard is a mix of salvaged old-tech—buttons, levers, dials—combined with projected glyphs and alien UI stolen from a downed scout frigate.
Living Quarters: No frills—just a cot, a weapons locker, and a wall plastered with old paper maps, ship schematics, and a few faded photographs (one of Yoru’s parents in their refinery jumpsuits, smiling under factory lights).
Cargo Hold: Shielded with scrambled signal dampeners and lead-weave mesh. Lined with hidey-holes and magnetic containment crates—perfect for smuggling Oz Dust or Stratus Root without tripping sensors.
Security: Tripwire drones, a cloaked turret that unfolds from the cargo ceiling, and an experimental anti-boarding pulse Yoru “liberated” from a pirate science vessel.
In flight, The Hollow Moth moves like it’s alive—gliding through gravity wells and asteroid fields with uncanny grace. When it drifts idle in a dark system, it looks like a ghost ship—silent, motionless, and watching. Her engine hum is low and hypnotic, like the drone of a distant insect or an old lullaby sung through static.
To those who know ships, The Hollow Moth isn’t just a vessel.
It’s a statement.
It says:
“I don’t fight wars. I vanish from them.”
