Every seal he makes is layered carefully. Containment, resistance, memory, grief. To break one is not just to release what’s bound, but to shatter something far older. Balance, order, cost. His tools are ancient, far older than his first breath. His discipline, brutal. And though his hands are steady, his eyes always carry fear. Not of what he seals, but of who unmake it without understanding the price. Him, Faizan Harris Morsevic.

“Every single line has its own meaning.
And every meaning, has its consequences.”

Inside the glass nest, bitter air mingles with venom-sweet scents, and brews whisper in bubbles. 'Herbalist' was never a low risk of a role, herbs can heal or destroy, and the plants seem to know. Some wrap around their wrist like old friends; others scream in silence when cut. Recipes shift overnight without warning, old symbols replacing those careful notes.

         “You don’t pick the herbs. They choose who touches them, and who bleeds for it.”

A single sip can mend bones, or melt them. Scars are part of the price, gifts from a nature that remembers blood. And sometimes, the plants move on their own, crawling through the nest, looking for purpose. What are they really creating, hidden deep inside those glass? Is it the cure for the sick, or offerings for one that is way older than their own bones?
      

He sings softly, not to soothe, but to stain. His voice is low, patient, full of syllables that taste like iron and ash. The venom is not in the blade or bottle. It is in the rhythm, the cadence, the pause between breaths. He does not brew potions. He invokes them. His poisons don’t just harm, they linger, learning your body from the inside out, changing it note by note. They call him, The Venomchant.

When he speaks, the air grows sweet and thick. Eyes glaze, limbs falter, thoughts slow. Not because of fear, but because the chant has already begun. He tells his target exactly what is coming in words they don’t understand, until the blood starts to answer. Death by his hand is not fast. It is a whole set of performance. And it will always end as the final verse. Him, Miles Rue Morsevic.

“I didn’t whisper to harm or warn you.
I whisper so your blood can sings back.”

He speaks slowly, like something that’s been listening far longer than it’s been asked to speak. Roots twist to his voice. Not just upward, but outward, downward, inward. He walks barefoot through soil no one else trusts, his touch pulling memory from the earth like thread. He doesn’t shout to command. He asks, and the forest answers. In silence. In movement. In knots. They call him, The Rootbinder.

The power he wields is not violent, but it can be. Vines don’t need to be fast to crush a throat. Roots do not need to be sharp to break bone. He binds what should have stayed wild, and he does it kindly. So kindly it hurts. He is not your enemy. He is not your friend. He is not the kne you could trust your life with. He is what grows beneath both, waiting to rise when the time is right, strangle it down. Him, Soren Carl Morsevic.

“The roots are wrapped around your name.
They are waiting for my words to pull.”

She rose from water no one dares drink, skin slick with moss, eyes too still for something living. Her breath smells of old rain, and when she speaks, it sounds like something bubbling up from below. They say she was born in the mire, others say she was buried there. But now she walks, crowned in fungi and fog, and wherever her feet fall, something blooms, soft and so wrong. They call her, The Mireborn.

The sick come to her. So do the cursed. She never turns them away, but her cures come slow and oozing, stitched with things you shouldn’t touch. Roots that drink from corpses. Flowers that open under moon-sick tides. She doesn’t clean the wound, she feeds it, until it learns to grow on its own. The swamp isn’t death to her. It is home. And it always remember everything that sinks. Her, Fleusha Noerth Morsevic.

“I don’t pull you out from the swamp.
I show you how to breathe in it instead.”

He doesn’t carry weapons. He carries breath. Invisible, drifting, patient. Where he walks, air thickens. Walls bloom with color not meant for daylight. His garden lives on skin, in lungs, beneath floorboards. He doesn’t kill with a blade. He just speaks, and lets the spores listen. By the time the fever hits, it’s already too late. They call him, The Sporeweaver.

They say he weaves with hands and breath alike, braiding curses into powders, lacing kindness with decay. One won’t know if what he gave is medicine or something much worse. His eyes are soft. His smile is warm. But don’t follow him into the fog. He doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you. He just needs the target to inhale. Then it would be the last scent one will remember through the pain of air choking and minutes of suffering. Him, Fahresa Hilmy Morsevic.

“You don’t need to scream, just breathe.
I don’t force death, I let it bloom slowly.”

She speaks, and things grow. Not always the way they should. Vines curl when she hums, petals shiver open under her breath, the roots don’t ask where they’re growing. Some bloom red. Some bloom hungry. Villages once begged for her touch in time of plague, and some were saved. Others were swallowed whole. She doesn’t choose. The wild always listen to her word. They call her, The Bloomcaller.

Her skin smells like rain and iron. There’s always a little dirt beneath her nails, and sometimes it twitches. They will find her deep in overgrowth that shouldn’t be there, in gardens that were never planted. To call her gentle would be a mistake. She coaxes life from rot, and beauty from the bones. She doesn’t warn you not to touch, she won’t. She will let the thorns teach that lesson for her. Her, Snowiesther Morsevic.

“Not all petals bloom for the light.
Some bloom better in dripping blood.”