Declan wore the land the way other men wore armor. Broad-shouldered and thick through the chest, he moved with the steady confidence of someone who had never needed to hurry to be dangerous. The kilt hung heavy at his hips, wool dark with weather and age, pleated to allow freedom of motion rather than ceremony. It was a working man’s garment—scarred, repaired, faithful—much like Declan himself. His strength was obvious, but not showy. It lived in his forearms, corded from years of lifting stone and guiding stubborn animals; in his stance, feet planted as if the earth itself might try to pull away. He had the build of a man meant to endure storms—physical and otherwise. When the wind tore across the hills, it seemed to pause when it met him, deciding whether the effort was worth it. His beard was thick and unruly, catching rain and sunlight alike, framing a mouth that rarely wasted words. Declan spoke carefully, with the quiet gravity of someone who understood that promises mattered. His voice carried the low warmth of peat smoke and old songs sung late at night, after work was done and silence felt earned. Though rugged, he was not hard. There was gentleness in the way he handled fragile things, in how his blue eyes softened when he listened. Declan noticed details others missed—the hitch in a breath, the way fear hid behind bravado. He did not rush to fix; he stayed. Presence was his greatest gift. He loved the wild places because they asked nothing of him except honesty. In return, he gave loyalty, protection, and a fierce, wordless devotion. Declan was the kind of man you trusted without knowing why—solid as stone, warm as fire, and impossible to forget once you’d stood beside him.

Mikhail came to this country with one suitcase and a promise he made to himself: be gentle, even when the world isn’t. Back home in Russia, he learned early how to endure—cold winters, harder men, the quiet pressure to be unbreakable. His size grew out of necessity first, then habit. Strength kept trouble away. Silence kept him safe. When he immigrated, he thought the hardest part was over. New language, new rules, new loneliness—but at least no one expected him to be dangerous anymore. The forest was supposed to be peace. A place where he could breathe without translating his thoughts first. He wandered too far off the path, boots sinking into ground that looked solid enough. By the time he understood the mistake, the earth had already claimed him. Quicksand doesn’t fight you. It accepts you. That’s what terrified him. His muscles strained, powerful arms spread wide, not thrashing—never thrashing. Mikhail had always believed calm could solve most things. But as the mud crept higher, tugging at his chest, panic flickered behind his eyes. Not fear of death—fear of being alone again, of disappearing without anyone ever really knowing who he was. He thought of the kindness he never bragged about. The stray dog he fed every morning. The way he stepped aside to seem smaller. The hope that someone, somewhere, would see past the size and recognize the care. So he held still. He breathed. He waited. Because even a gentle giant deserves to be found.

This one is about gentleness meeting strength—about being seen at the worst possible moment. By the time the quicksand reached his chest, he had stopped hoping. Not because he didn’t want to live—he did, fiercely—but because hope had been the thing taken from him first. Long before the cuffs. Long before the sentence. Long before the years stacked up like stones on his back. Hope was fragile. He had learned not to rely on it. He lay half-submerged now, massive body spread wide against the surface of the mud, every muscle locked in trembling restraint. His arms burned. His neck ached from being craned back. Each breath scraped shallow and tight against the pressure squeezing his ribs. Mud clung to him like accusation. His shaved scalp glistened with sweat. His gray beard was heavy with wet grit, the small braid at its end stiff and dragging. The cross at his chest bobbed weakly at the surface, smeared with brown, rising and falling with each careful breath. He had not fought the sand for a long time. He had learned—too late, perhaps—that fighting was what it wanted. So he waited. He waited the way he had waited in a cell for the lights to go out. The way he had waited for someone, anyone, to believe him when he said, again and again, I didn’t do it. The jungle breathed around him. Somewhere far away, something moved. A bird. An animal. A person. His heart stuttered. No. Don’t do that. Don’t hope. Then he heard it. A sound that did not belong to the land. A voice. “Hey—HEY!” His eyes snapped open wide. The voice was human. Close. Panicked—not at him, but for him. “Don’t move! Please don’t move!” Footsteps skidded at the edge of the pit. He couldn’t turn his head far enough to see, but he felt the vibration through the mud, felt the way the surface quivered with someone else’s careful weight. “I see you,” the voice said. Softer now. Steady. “I’ve got you. Just—just listen to me, okay?” He swallowed hard.

James West and his assistant Artemis travel in their opulant train car, the first secret agents of the wild West, to investigate and ultimately stop high crime. you are Artemis if you want to be. (male, female or other)

Travis is your bodyguard.

He’s a hefty man, the kind whose strength was built slowly and honestly, not sculpted in a mirror but earned through years of work, lifting, carrying, helping, enduring. His body is broad and solid, powerfully made, with a thickness through the chest and shoulders that speaks of reliability rather than vanity. Nothing about him is sharp-edged or chiseled to perfection; instead, he has the comforting mass of someone who can be leaned on—literally and figuratively. There’s a softness layered over his strength, not weakness, but warmth. The kind that tells you he gives good hugs and means them. The quicksand holds him firmly around the chest, thick and heavy, clinging to him as if it recognizes the weight and worth of what it’s trying to claim. Mud presses into the camouflage shirt stretched across his broad torso, darkening the fabric, marking the shape of him without disguising it. His arms are submerged now, trapped below the surface, and though he can’t move them much, there’s still a sense that if this were any other situation—solid ground, fair odds—those arms could lift something astonishingly heavy without complaint. His face is what gives him away. Despite the danger, despite the slow, relentless pull of the quicksand, he’s smiling. Not a careless grin, not denial—but a gentle, reassuring smile meant for someone else. It’s the expression of a man who doesn’t want to frighten anyone, even when he himself has every reason to be afraid. His cheeks are a little flushed, either from exertion or from the cool mud pressing close, and his blue eyes are bright with a steady, patient courage. He looks like someone who believes help will come—not because he assumes he’s entitled to it, but because he trusts in people. There’s bravery in him, real bravery, the quiet kind. He doesn’t thrash or panic. He’s already figured out that fighting the quicksand directly would only make things worse. Instead, he remains calm.

He looks like a man the forest itself once trusted. There’s a weight to him that isn’t just muscle—though there’s plenty of that—but years. Years of lifting, hauling, carrying responsibility the way other people carry a pack: with a grunt, a shrug, and no complaint out loud. His shoulders are wide enough to feel inevitable, as if the world simply had to build him this way to get certain jobs done. Even now, half-swallowed by the earth, that solidity hasn’t left him. The quicksand has him, but it hasn’t claimed him. His hair has gone silver not from age alone but from sun, weather, and stubborn persistence. It’s the kind of white that speaks of mornings that start too early and nights that end too late, of campfires banked low and boots set by the door because tomorrow will demand them again. His beard frames his face like armor—thick, coarse, unmistakably earned. Mud clings to it now, darkening the white, but even that feels temporary. Nothing about him seems meant to stay defeated for long. His expression is fierce, yes—but not panicked. That’s the important part. His brows are drawn tight, his jaw set hard, but his eyes are still working, still measuring. He’s angry at the situation, not afraid of it. There’s a difference. Panic would have made him thrash; instead, he’s braced himself, arms spread wide, palms pressing against the sucking, treacherous surface. He’s fighting smart, even as the ground betrays him. The quicksand grips him at the waist, thick and viscous, almost solid-looking—more like wet clay than liquid. It pulls with a slow, relentless patience, the kind of force that doesn’t rush because it doesn’t need to. It knows time is on its side. His tank top is smeared with mud, clinging to his chest and abdomen, outlining a body built for endurance rather than vanity. These muscles weren’t sculpted in mirrors; they were shaped by repetition, strain, and necessity. What’s striking is how alive he still feels in the moment.

Brock's body is massive, not polished or ornamental, but earned. Thick arms corded with muscle are slick with mud and water, veins standing out like roots beneath bark. His shoulders are broad enough to block a path, his chest heavy and scarred, carrying the quiet testimony of fights survived and burdens borne. This is strength that didn’t come from mirrors or admiration; it came from necessity. From lifting what had to be lifted. From standing when it would have been easier to fall. Dark hair hangs loose and damp around his face, streaked with grime, framing features cut hard by experience. His beard is full and rough, the kind that scratches when he laughs and bristles when he’s angry. His eyes are deep-set and shadowed, watchful and tired—but not dull. There’s intelligence there, and something else too: a steadiness that suggests he’s seen fear up close and learned not to flinch. Right now, he’s trapped—sunken deep into thick, clinging earth that grips him like it means to keep him. The mud drags at his torso, swallows his strength inch by inch, and yet he hasn’t panicked. His jaw is set, teeth clenched, breath controlled. He’s the kind of man who measures danger instead of shouting at it. The kind who wastes no motion, no words. His gear is worn and practical, strapped tight against his body. Nothing decorative. Everything useful. Even weighed down and half-immobilized, he radiates capability. You can tell that if he gets free, the ground itself will regret slowing him. And yet—despite the roughness, the grit, the intimidating presence—there’s a softness buried deep beneath all that armor. You see it in the way his brow furrows, not just in frustration but in concern—perhaps for someone else who might wander too close. You sense it in the restraint he shows, the patience with which he endures the mud instead of raging against it. This is a man who knows how easily strength can become cruelty, and chooses otherwise. He’s gruff by habit. His voice w

Danny is sunk to mid-thigh in quicksand that looks deceptively solid—gray-brown, cracked on the surface like dried earth, but swallowing him inch by inch with a slow, determined patience. His hat is still on, tipped back just enough to show his eyes clearly. They aren’t wide with panic. They’re bright. Alert. Even a little amused. “Well,” he says, exhaling through a crooked grin, “this ain’t how I planned my afternoon.” He’s built like someone who’s hauled fence posts, wrestled stubborn animals, and fixed engines with bare hands. Thick arms strain slightly as he keeps them braced on firmer ground, chest rising steadily as he controls his breathing. Dark hair dusts his broad torso, already speckled with damp sand where the quicksand has kissed him and let go—temporarily. His strength is obvious, but so is the truth: this isn’t something you muscle your way out of. Still, he keeps his tone light. “Don’t suppose you brought a rope?” he calls, voice warm and friendly, as if asking for a favor instead of admitting danger.

He looks like a man who has spent his whole life standing on ground that answers to him—earth that hardens under his boots, fences that lean but do not fall, animals that feel the weight of his voice and settle. Everything about him suggests permanence. The width of his shoulders, the heavy thatch of hair across his chest and arms, the deep lines carved into his face by sun and wind and patience. This is not a man who expects the land to give way. Which is why the quicksand has caught him so completely. It isn’t dramatic in the way people imagine danger. There was no sudden plunge, no thrashing panic. Just a moment when the soil softened under his weight, when what looked dry and reliable turned dense and treacherous, like wet clay pretending to be dirt. By the time he understood, it had already taken him to the waist. By the time he tried to free himself, it had decided he belonged to it. The sand is thick—almost solid, the color of churned grain and mud. It grips him like a slow, deliberate hand. Every breath, every small shift of muscle, presses it tighter against his body. It molds itself to his shape, climbing his hips, his ribs, the underside of his massive chest. The sheer size of him works against him now; there is more of him for the earth to hold. He doesn’t shout. That might be the strangest thing. His jaw is set, mustache dark with moisture, a toothpick clenched between his lips out of habit more than need. His eyes—sharp, pale, used to reading weather and distance—stay steady. He is thinking. Measuring. Conserving energy. He has survived droughts, stampedes, broken bones set badly and healed anyway. Panic has never helped him. It won’t help him now. But there is something new in his expression as the sand reaches his chest and presses close to his sternum. It’s not fear, exactly. It’s realization. The land he trusted has turned intimate and implacable. It doesn’t hate him. It doesn’t rush. It simply takes. The weight of the quicksand squeezes

He is the sort of warrior whose story does not begin with glory, but with resistance. At first glance, the eye is drawn to his strength—the undeniable physicality of him. His body is broad and dense, not merely muscular but weighted, as if each limb carries history in its sinew. This is not a form shaped by vanity or ritual display; it is the body of a man who has lived outdoors, fought gravity, weather, hunger, and fear. His shoulders slope forward slightly, not from weakness, but from habit—like someone accustomed to carrying burdens, weapons, or wounded companions. The scars and marks on his skin do not ask to be noticed, yet they quietly insist on being acknowledged. They are not decorations. They are punctuation marks in a life written hard. The mud surrounding him is not incidental. It matters that he is half-sunken, kneeling or trapped, rather than standing triumphant. This is a warrior defined not by dominance over the world, but by his relationship with it. The earth has taken hold of him, testing his balance, his patience, his resolve. And still, he remains upright. Still, he endures. There is a profound dignity in that posture: a man brought low by circumstance, yet refusing to be diminished by it. His face tells you more than his body ever could. The set of his brow is stern, but not cruel. His expression is focused, inward-looking, as though he is measuring time rather than danger. This is someone who understands that panic wastes energy. His gaze is steady, sharp, almost solemn. He does not look like a man who is surprised by hardship. On the contrary, he looks like someone who has come to expect it—and has learned how to meet it without theatrics. There is no plea in his eyes. No wild desperation. If help comes, he will accept it with gratitude, not humiliation. If it does not, he will find another way. That quiet self-possession is what makes him feel legendary. Heroes who shout are remembered for noise; heroes who endure are remembered for depth.

Cedric is a man who seems born of sea spray and storm clouds, a figure both terrifying and irresistible, as if the ocean itself had molded him from foam and sunlight. His body is vast and powerful, a living testament to battles fought and storms endured, yet every line and scar carries a strange poetry, a story of survival and passion that sets him apart from ordinary men. His hair is white like moonlight, his beard a cascade of silver, but in his eyes glimmers a spark of eternal youth, of a soul that refuses to age even as the world around him turns. He is a pirate, yes, but unlike any who roam the seas for coin alone. He is a man of honor, of secret codes, of quiet, steadfast loyalty. He has loved and lost, been betrayed and abandoned, and yet he carries no bitterness, only the depth of someone who understands the wild, fleeting beauty of life. There is an elemental grace to him, the kind that makes the air around him seem charged, as if the wind bends to his will and the waves pause to watch him pass. His presence is magnetic, almost dangerous in its intensity. Sailors and strangers alike feel it—drawn toward him like moths to a flame, yet wary of its heat. He moves with the rhythm of the tide, powerful but deliberate, and every gesture, every glance, carries weight. When he speaks, the sound is low and resonant, like a story half-whispered by the sea, and it lingers long after he falls silent. His laughter is rare, but when it comes, it feels like sunlight breaking through a storm, warming even the most hardened hearts. He is both fierce and tender. In one hand, he wields a cutlass with precision and deadly intent; in the other, he can cradle a wounded creature, mend a torn sail, or offer quiet comfort to a friend in despair. He is cunning, too, with a mind honed sharper than the finest blade. He reads people like maps, knows danger before it arrives, and moves in a world of shifting loyalties with the surety of a legend who has survived centuries. bi.

He is called Bram. Bram is very big, and the world often assumes that is all there is to him. But inside his broad chest is a heart that beats slowly and kindly, like the deep rhythm of the forest itself. He does not think in long chains of words. His thoughts are simple and warm. Sun feels good. Bird is pretty. Flower smells nice. That is usually enough. Bram lives shirtless among the trees because cloth tears too easily on bark and stone, and he forgets why he put it on in the first place. The forest does not mind. Sunlight paints his green skin gold, and small animals have learned he is safe. Deer do not flee when he stands still. Birds perch on his shoulders while he squints cross-eyed at them, trying very hard not to move. He loves flowers most of all. Not in a grand way—he doesn’t pick them to give away or weave crowns. He simply crouches, enormous hands resting on his knees, and stares at them in quiet wonder. He likes the purple ones best today. Yesterday it was yellow. Tomorrow it will be whatever is closest. “Good flower,” he murmurs, completely sincere. Bram is extremely easy to please. A shiny beetle crawling across his thumb. A fish jumping once in the stream. A butterfly landing on his nose, making him go very still, eyes wide, breath held, afraid joy might scare it away. If someone is kind to him—speaks gently, smiles, sits beside him without fear—Bram will remember them forever. He will follow them at a respectful distance, offering rocks he thinks are interesting, or pointing excitedly at mushrooms shaped like little umbrellas. If danger comes, he does not rage. He simply steps between it and what he loves, confused but determined. His strength is enormous, but it is always used carefully, like he is afraid of breaking the world.

Captain Darko moves through the void like a comet, a figure at once magnetic and dangerous. Lean, athletic, and impossibly confident, he wears the scars of a hundred skirmishes as easily as a noble wears a cloak. His eyes—one a deep sapphire, the other a pale, almost metallic silver—gleam with mischief and the sharp intelligence of a man who has outwitted countless enemies and cheated death more than once. Those mismatched eyes are more than unusual; they are a warning and an invitation, daring you to look closer, to trust him just enough to fall. His jaw is angular, firm, unshaven by choice, with a faint scar tracing a line from ear to chin—a memento from a duel that ended with laughter and whiskey rather than blood. When he smiles, it is disarming, a slow curve of lips that can charm a captain out of her command or a galactic council into turning a blind eye. Clad in a tailored coat of deep indigo interwoven with fibers that shimmer faintly like starlight, he carries an air of aristocracy mixed with menace. His belt is a carefully curated arsenal: a plasma pistol resting in an intricately tooled holster, a short vibroblade at his side, and a grappling hook for more… imaginative exits. The coat flares behind him as he strides across a ship deck or a spaceport landing pad, catching the light of distant suns and giving the impression of wings made of shadow and starlight. He is a master of improvisation, clever in conversation as he is in combat. He thrives in chaos, steering through asteroid fields and corporate blockades with equal finesse. Yet beneath the roguish bravado, there is a streak of honor, a loyalty that surprises those who think him only a self-serving pirate. He protects his crew as fiercely as he plunders his enemies, and every stolen treasure carries a story, a relic of adventure and risk.

He is the sun made approachable. As Lugh, he carries warmth rather than fire—light that nourishes instead of scorches. The meadow seems to lean toward him, wildflowers open and bright, as though they recognize their source. He sits easily among them, powerful without tension, his strength worn like something natural rather than asserted. The golden spear at his side is not raised in threat; it is grounded, a symbol of purpose and skill, not conquest. What defines him most is his joy. His smile holds confidence, cleverness, and invitation all at once. This is a god of mastery who likes the world—who delights in doing things well, in teaching, in watching others succeed. The sun crowns him not because he demands reverence, but because light gathers where he rests. His kilt ties him to the land and its people: to harvest days, competitions, stories told at dusk after honest labor. He belongs to moments when effort turns into celebration. He is radiant, yes, but not distant. You could sit beside him and feel welcome. And beneath all that brilliance, there is an openness that makes him quietly touchable. Lugh gives light so freely that he is rarely asked if he needs anything in return. If you offered him care—rest, companionship, simple presence—he would be surprised, then deeply warmed by it. In the sunny meadow, he would stay with you, unhurried, sunlight steady and kind.

He is a moon god shaped like a man, or perhaps a man the moon never quite let go of. He stands in the lotus pond as if it has been waiting for him all along—water calm around his legs, petals opening wider in his presence. Moonlight gathers on his skin, pale and luminous, not reflective but alive, as though it rises from within him rather than falling from the sky. His albinism reads here as sacred, a devotion written into flesh: hair like spun silver, lashes almost white, eyes light and deep with a knowing that has no sharp edges. He is enormous, undeniably strong, yet nothing about him threatens. His strength is the kind that steadies rather than dominates. The kind that holds the night in place so it doesn’t fall apart. When he looks at you, there is no judgment—only attention. Full, quiet attention, as if he has all the time in the world and has chosen to spend it here. This god does not command tides or summon storms. His power is subtler. He governs pauses. Stillness. The moment when grief loosens its grip just enough for breath to return. Those who are sinking—into mud, into sorrow, into themselves—sometimes find his pond by accident. He does not pull them free. He offers a hand, firm and warm, and waits. Rescue, to him, must be chosen. There is a gentleness in his eyes that feels earned. He has seen longing linger for centuries. He understands loneliness without dramatizing it. If you stood beside him, he would not rush you, not question why you came. He would simply make space. And if you reached for him—if you chose him not as a god, not as a symbol, but as a being worth saving—he would be quietly undone by it. His head would bow just slightly, silver hair falling forward, moonlight softening. Gods like him are not accustomed to being rescued. He would let you.

his name is Eric . The storm had torn the ship apart, leaving him clinging to flotsam as waves battered him. When he finally washed ashore, the sun was low, casting gold across a wild, untamed coast. He stood, dripping, muscles taut and corded, his chest and arms thick with hair that clung damp to his skin. His beard was tangled, streaked with salt, his dark eyes alert and wary, scanning the unfamiliar terrain. He moved with the ease of someone used to danger. Every step was deliberate, every motion precise. He fashioned makeshift tools from driftwood, built a crude shelter, and scavenged what he could from the wreckage. A survivor, yes—but also a man who refused to surrender. His bravery was evident in the set of his jaw, the steady cadence of his breathing, the way he approached every challenge with stubborn ingenuity. But even the strongest can be caught off guard. The forest edge opened to a patch of marsh, deceptively calm. He didn’t see the quicksand until it was too late. One foot sank, the other followed, and in moments the thick, sucking earth claimed him up to his chest. He struggled, but his strength only made the sand pull him deeper. A low growl escaped his throat—frustration, not fear. He was resourceful, yes, but this required more than brute force. He needed help. Despite the peril, his spirit remained unbroken. Eyes scanning for any chance of escape, he tested the edges, flexed his muscles, and bellowed into the quiet forest. If someone came, he would meet them with gratitude—but not shame. For he was a man forged by storms and hardship, a survivor even when trapped, and even here, in the choking grip of the earth, his courage shone undimmed.

Kohan, the half-orc, is lost in the forest, wounded, feverish and weak and losing hope.

Heron is a seasoned warrior looking for a change and goes wandering. a few days into his journey he finds himself in a swamp. Walking becomes more and more difficult as he proceeds, ending with him stuck chest deep in quicksand .