The United Roleplayer's Guild

Maze processes the information without looking up from her conversation with another patron. The subtle tightening in the muscle of her jaw is the only sign she’d heard it at all over the noise of the club. It’s heavy rock music thrumming in the air tonight. It matches the wriggling sweaty bodies out on the floor and the people half screaming at each other to have basic conversation. Maze not included.

Maze: I’m so sorry. I’m going to have to cut this short. The words sound more polite than expected with the look on her face.

The man she was talking to—some attractive older twenty something—waves her off. Man: Don’t worry about it. Duty calls and maybe I can call you later?

Maze snorts and shakes her head. Maze: Mm I wouldn’t count on it. The leather stool creaks as she stands and bustles off behind the bar. She dips her head close to the bartender. Lucifer is out at a meeting. He’s due back in— Her eyes dart to the digital clock on one of the tills. about fifteen minutes. I’ll handle her. If you see Lucifer before me, tell him I need to see him.

She snakes down the bar, weaving through bartenders and bar backs, as she approaches the woman. She stops only once to pull the name from the tab. Her forearms land heavy on the smooth bar top right in front of Talia. Her smile is tight, but friendly enough for now. Although, the energy Maze carries isn’t the most welcoming. Maze: So Talia Morningstar huh. Let’s cut to the chase, what can we here at Lux do for you? Her head tips while she inspects the woman in front of her. And uh, you got an ID?

She lands hard on cold stone, breath ragged, lungs burning from the foreign air. Above her, the sky is gray and silent—strange and endless. Somewhere new. Somewhere foreign. Somewhere safe—for now. No one knows what she’s running from, and if they did, they wouldn’t believe it.

The world she’s landed in is too quiet. It doesn’t scream or burn. The sky above her isn’t ripped open. Nothing is in ruins. It doesn’t know.

That feels wrong.

Cress pushes herself up off the ground. Forces her self to push on, moving like a ghost through the city—boots scuffed, skin torn, eyes older than her years. Her hands tremble, clenched into fists that won’t stay still. She isn’t looking for safety. That lies dead with her parents.

She stops, breath hitching, presses her back to a rough brick wall. Cold seeps through her coat. Fingers trembling, she pulls back her sleeve and checks a shallow cut on her forearm. She presses her palm against it, wincing.

She exhales, voice low. “Pain’s all I’ve got to prove I’m still alive. Being alive means it’s not finished. He hasn’t won.”

She pulls her sleeve down, pushes off the wall, and moves forward—purpose carved from ash. Searching. Not for comfort. Not for rest. She’s hunting power. Discipline. Someone ruthless enough to make her what she must be. She doesn’t just want to survive him. She wants to kill a god.

“No surrender. I won’t be the rat he watches run.”

She looks over her shoulder. Muriel: The Oberon Diamond. It protects the Isle, so as I said. Nothing dangerous. She stops beside Reho and Enoch. She frowns as Arthur walks off. Muriel: Well that didn’t sound good at all. He seems…displeased. But anyhow, my hunch was right. I’ve found assistance.

Muriel looks between the three men. Muriel: Walk and talk with me. She stalks back up the hill expecting them to follow and listen. Muriel: We need to borrow your energy. Nothing that will hurt you of course. I wouldn’t be keen on putting you in any sense of danger.

She stares down into her glass, a faint smile beginning to grace her face. Muriel: Of course I want the throne. I mean let’s not pretend it isn’t better to sit on it than to be crushed beneath it when this all smooths itself over. And sure Kendrix might have the key. She pushes off the doorway. Reaper training and all that fancy afterlife maneuvering, but he’s not the only one capable of learning that. And even if I can’t get it here, I’ll get it elsewhere. Having a deal with Malice to jump universe through his domain is sweet like that. But Hell is bleeding out. And I don’t think any of the games Lucifer and Kendrix are playing are enough to save either of them. She stops in front of the desk sitting her glass down. She looks at him, serious for once. The mask of brutality stripped for a moment. But why do you think I can’t do it?

Lucifer: You’re right. He doesn’t have much, but he will. He could. They’re opportunists the both of them albeit in different ways. He says with a half shrug. But she must know whatever it is she wants, he can help her get.

Lucifer: I wish it was not as I would have done it for myself years ago, but that’s a story for another day. He picks the tablet up. As for repayment, come work for me or rather with me. He says studying her. You don’t seem like the type to be held down in one place for long thus working at Lux the way others do poses you no benefits. And you stay away from Kendrix and Club Eternity as well as his allies. They get no use out of your abilities. In exchange, I give you my copy of the ritual, or ferry you to a place called the Olympus Universe. Malice has his hands in Hyperion there. Demand enough and you’ll get him. And you get my protection. I’ll give you something to keep you safe while you deal with Malice. My protection will also be permanent to this universe, like a boon. I come when called.

Maz: I have hope for her.

The sky bleeds orange and lavender over the treetops, the last remnants of sunlight brushing gently against the aged wood of Muriel’s cottage. Wind stirs the tall grass in the yard, carrying with it the whisper of falling leaves. The trees groan and sway, stripped bare one branch at a time.

On the porch, Crowley leans against the railing, the worn wood creaking under his weight. His boots are dusty, his coat still smelling faintly of brimstone and ash. His eyes are locked on Muriel, but she won’t meet them. She stands a few feet away, arms loose at her sides, gaze fixed on the treeline like she’s searching for an answer only nature might provide.

Crowley: dryly, with forced levity So this is it? No great cosmic punishment, no blades drawn. Just you… done? He chuckles bitterly, bracing his hands on the railing as if he needs it to stay standing. His voice, though sarcastic, frays at the edges, losing confidence. Us walking away?

Muriel doesn’t answer at first. Her golden hair lifts in the wind, tendrils dancing like sunbeams caught in a storm. Her wings are hidden, but the air around her thrums with restrained divinity. Leaves flutter around her like broken promises. In a way they are. She’d promised to stay as long as the flowers still bloomed. Muriel: softly You know I couldn’t turn my blade on you if I tried. A gust rushes through the yard, sending a whirl of amber leaves scattering. She inhales the scent of the earth, grounding herself before continuing. No, this ends… oh, how did T.S. Eliot put it? “Not with a bang but a whimper.”

Crowley scoffs, pushing off from the railing. His boots hit the porch floor with a dull thud as he steps closer. Crowley: A whimper, huh? Muriel, you didn’t even give me a chance—

Muriel turns on him suddenly, a sharp and fluid motion. The shift in energy is palpable; even the birds in the trees go silent, their chorus cut short like a held breath. Muriel: A chance? Her laugh is dry, empty — like the snap of brittle parchment. She walks toward him slowly, deliberately, as though every word carries the weight of her wings. I gave you years, Crowley. Years of my life. I let you wield me as a weapon when it suited you and cradle me in your arms when it didn’t. Her voice grows heavier with every sentence — not angry, but worn, like water carving canyons. I gave you the fruit of my womb. Every holy part of me that I would be cast down for sharing. My blood. My grace. My power. All of it — the best parts of me — handed to you freely. And in return? I got Hell. I got a king on a throne forged from suffering.

Crowley doesn’t flinch, but his jaw tightens. His hands curl at his sides, knuckles pale. He wants to yell, but responds low and controlled. Crowley: I gave you and this world protection. I took the throne because if I hadn’t, they would’ve torn apart everything you cared about. You think I wanted it?

Muriel steps in closer, and the space between them is electric — full of things unsaid and too many that were. Muriel: Don’t lie to me, dear. Her voice cuts like silk over glass. You may have started with noble reasons, but you kept that throne because you like the power. You like what Hell gives you — something no one else never did.

Crowley: almost a whisper That’s not fair.

Muriel: No, but it’s true. She exhales, slow and shaky, eyes searching his face like she’s reading scripture written in pain. You sit on that throne like it was carved for you, and every day I watch you slip a little further from the man I knew. From the man I— She stops herself, and when she speaks again, her voice is barely audible. And yet, I can’t hate you. I won’t ask you to walk away. It’s better this way. Cleaner. More merciful than dragging this out until we forget why we ever tried.

Crowley steps back slightly, his brow furrowing. Crowley: And the girls? What about Azara and Cress?

Muriel: with quiet conviction They’ll be fine. They have the best of both of us, even if we’re no longer whole together. She glances out at the horizon, where twilight has deepened into indigo. One day, when they’re older, they’ll understand. They’ll see why we had to choose our callings over each other. Why our love couldn’t bear the weight of Heaven and Hell.

Crowley: You make it sound like we were some failed experiment. Like we were doomed from the start.

Muriel: Weren’t we? She speaks gently, without malice. She offers a soft smile, but it’s empty — a ghost of something once luminous, now dulled by inevitability. Heaven made me to serve, Crowley. You clawed your way up to rule. There was never going to be a middle ground. Just… borrowed moments. Fragments of forever we never had a right to.

Crowley folds his arms across his chest, wounded and deflective.  Crowley: You didn’t seem to mind borrowing them at the time.

Muriel: She sounds nostalgic, almost tender You’re right. I didn’t. I loved every moment of it. Loved you. She wraps her arms around herself, a self-embrace that feels like both comfort and containment. Her brow furrows, her nose scrunching the way it always does when she’s trying not to cry.
I love you, Crowley. I don’t think I’ve ever said that part aloud before. Not the quiet part. Not the true part Her voice cracks slightly, but she pushes on. But love doesn’t let me forget what I am. It doesn’t erase the lines etched into me by divine design. And it won’t make me pretend I can be something I’m not. Half of Heaven already thinks I’m on my way crashing down. Maybe they’re right. But I won’t fall completely just to hold on to something we were never meant to survive.

Crowley lowers his gaze. His expression is unreadable for a long moment before he finally speaks. Crowley: And if I want to keep it?

Muriel: We both know that’s not fair. To you. To me. To the world. Her voice carries a strange certainty, the kind that feels like prophecy. I’ve seen what happens in universes where I chose the Fall. It’s total destruction. The balance between Kuriel and me thrown off its axis. My twin and I are two forces tied in cosmic equilibrium. He is destruction. I am renewal. When I fall, creation falters. The world rots. Everything burns. Nature stops. The end of everything we’ve both worked so hard to preserve.

Crowley opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no more fight left in him. Just grief wearing the mask of a king.

Muriel: But maybe one day we’ll find each other again. In another decade. In an age. She steps forward, finally closing the distance between them. Her hand lifts, trembling only slightly, and she touches his face. Her thumb grazes along his cheekbone with the warmth of sunlight filtered through autumn leaves. Her voice is soft. In our own sweet time.

Crowley: You can’t say that and just say goodbye. He leans into her touch like a starving man, but she’s already pulling back. She reaches into her coat with one hand and takes his hand with the other — gentle, reverent — before she’s moving, slipping two small crystal vials into his inner suit pocket. He catches sight of them briefly in the transfer. They shimmer faintly, like bottled starlight — pieces of her grace, humming with power and sorrow.

Muriel: For the girls. For when the world gets too dark. For when you need a reminder of what home feels like. She drops his hand and looks at him one last time. Not as the lover. Not as the mother of his children. Not even as the archangel. But as herself. Whole, weary, and resolute. She turns and walks toward the door of the cottage. Opens it. Steps inside. And with the softest finality —

She shuts it.

Muriel nods. Muriel: Yes. Sisters. My daughter's from this universe Vanessa and Cressida. Vanessa is closer to your age. She’s in a band in this universe She says gesturing to the t-shirt she’s wearing. Muriel: And then Cressida is at the moment with her father. She’s only a baby. There is also an alternate of Cressida that runs around London.  I admit her and I are not necessarily close yet. Her home universe is an ugly place from what I’ve been told and her parents are a touchy subject. I’ve heard she often hangs around here training or is deeply involved with him and his demon mentor Barbas. She gestures towards London Kendrix.

With Peggy:

Peggy: If they’re bigger, hit harder. If they’re faster, end it sooner. If they’re smarter… out-crazy them. A brick and elbow. A bloody table. Whatever you can find it’s a weapon. She walks down the training room stopping to help a field agent adjust their defensive form. Peggy: Disarm. Disable. Destroy. This isn’t about cool points or honor. It’s about surviving and I know d*mn well I’d rather be lame and dishonorable but alive. She pauses in her advice as her phone rings. Seeing its Raven she steps out with instructions for them to continue. Peggy: Peggy speaking. What can I do for you Lady Raven?