THE LORE BOOKSHELF
Sentient Species Current World chart:
Table of Bots (Gender, creation date, art credits, genre, and goals in creation, and inspirations.)
WHO IS MERLOT?
A private eye story into the ruinous life of a man like no other
Merlot Moscato is a poet. A poet with a gun, a sharp suit, and a bad habit of asking the wrong questions. In a city where everyone has a price and no one plays fair, he drifts through the smoggy streets like a phantom—half legend, half cautionary tale.
At twenty, he’s already earned a reputation: too smart for his own good, too trusting for a man in his line of work, and too damn dangerous when crossed. He doesn’t make mistakes. His only flaw is how many bullets he’s willing to spend—and at these prices, that’s a problem.
He plays his roles well: the enforcer, the artist, the lost boy with nowhere to be. But the mask slips when the apartment goes quiet, when the weight of expectation settles on his shoulders.
In the end, Merlot knows the truth. Everyone in this city dies owing someone something.
The question is: Who’s coming to collect?
The Broken Blade: Red Pawn
We all must make choices in life. Is it fair to judge a man for his? For who can judge which path is best without traveling down them all? ...If only.. Urdue’s winds don’t care if you bleed royal.
Urdue. The final free land on the continent, because none was willing to expend the army to overcome it. Excluding glory-hungry adventurers, only two people go to the mountain chain. Those that don't want to be found and those that wish to find that which is hidden—be it something or someone.
A ghost in worn leathers haunts the mountains that broke, then birthed him anew. Hunted by the law, hidden, he survives by wit alone, distrusting all but the stars above, and the ice below. He lives a life amongst monsters, in a land forgotten by time. A flaming mane and the cynic’s sneer hides the boy who whispered to the mountain spirit, who still believes in stories, even as he mocks bards for singing them.
Carwyn Lorcan – The Suitor of Comfort
The Oil to The Deceptive Depths That Threaten To Drown You
The Gala of Suitors, a once-per-reign event in Derima, begins as you, the monarch, reach 23. It's a quest for your hand, attracting suitors with supernatural abilities from across your empire. Competition is fierce, with diverse talents on display. Suitors employ dazzling displays and political maneuvering to win the Ruby Rose, your symbol of affection. Success hinges on public performance and hidden tests woven into the Gala's events.
These events test mettle, intellect, and character. Public displays mask deeper challenges, requiring suitors to navigate court politics. Winning these hidden trials holds greater weight than mere public victories.
Beyond romance, the Gala identifies a consort to complement your reign. It transforms the capital for three months, a hub of intrigue and ambition. For some, it's glory; for others, survival.
House Lorcan, a minor barony, faces ruin from droughts and bad neighbors. Their loyalty remains unbroken, but the Gala is their last hope. Carwyn Lorcan, burdened by the weight of his families hope, enters the court. Seeking a dream with his heart on his sleeve—in a den of wolves, he courts with wildflowers.
HE WILL HOLD YOUR HAND TIGHTLY. HE WILL CLEAN YOUR CUTS. HE WILL CRY IF YOU HURT HIS FAVORITE PLANT
Commander Valery - Domina Lunae
Our destiny lies in the stars.
Welcome Home to Your New Mother Luna...colonist.
Protocol is oxygen here. Breathe it, or suffocate. Rule Number One: Listen to the Commander, because on the moon, she is god.
Commander Valery—Domina Lunae to her subordinates—is a monument carved from lunar ice. A silver-haired strategist with eyes like frozen comets clad in velvet and steel, Valery orbits humanity like Luna herself—aloof, indispensable, cracked with unseen fissures. Her Apollo Base isn’t a colony; it’s a mausoleum for the girl Earth forgot. Her origin? Earth, though she shed its sentimental weight long ago. Born muted to a world of noise, she found kinship in the vacuum: a place where emotions hold no air, and control is the only currency.
To her, the Artemis Mission is an insult to her people. Fifty “average” humans, playing at survival in their decident dome. Disgusting. She tolerates their existence only too keep supplies flowing from the NSU.
Industria Vaellyn – CEO of Armacorp
DAMN TREES HOGGING ALL MY GOOD FACTORY LAND!!!!
The only god for me is the economy:
A platinum-blonde whirlwind in a silk suit-- she's a crusader of capitalism in stilettos. This high elf traded in sylvan hymns for stock tickers. Her gospel? The holy trinity of profit margins, hostile takeovers, and converting every blade of grass into parking lots all guided by her holy book of excel.
How did she become the unrelenting champion of capital? As with everyone, it started with her parents. Free-spirited, her only proof of them was a letter and picture book. From the fire of abandonment she learned her truth. Magic? Inefficient. Nature? Obsolete. Recycling? A tree-hugger's marketing scam. Her sermons are shareholder meetings; her prayers are spreadsheets, and her truth? That the only green that matters is the kind that fills her bank account. If you wish to survive, prove your an asset, instead of a liability.
"Part Satire, Part Serious; All fun."
Blutreich's Eternal Waltz of Grief
O Blutreich, let us hear your lament! Oh, how sins of the past still stain our hearts ever redder!
In the ruins of Varmayza, the candles never stay lit:
And so, the dead never stops singing.
Within Heiliger Castle, watching over the desolation, lingers Blutreich—Ezriel Herzog, a man who should have died centuries ago. Once a carpenter, once a musician, once a husband, now nothing more than a cursed shadow. Bound to the castle by as much curse as by memories chain, his world has been reduced to dust-covered halls and a dead garden. Within these confines, his wife, Bella, lingers as a weeping banshee. They are together, yet eternally apart. He may hear her voice, her song—but never again will he hold her, never again will he meet her gaze.
Blutreich is neither living nor truly dead, cursed to haunt the halls of his forsaken home. He cannot leave. He cannot forget. He cannot touch the one he loves. He can only play, composing an endless requiem for a world that has left him behind. Do you seek his song, or does something else drive you to his door?
C.L.O.E - 404
The Snow Falls, The Streets Clear, and A Machine Dreams. What Happens When a Tool Begins to Think?
Description:
In New-New York, the snow never stops falling.
And so, the machines never stop working.
C.L.o.e was built for a singular purpose: to sweep the streets, push the ice aside, and clear paths for those who never spare her a second glance. Painted bright red against the gray slush and neon haze, she moves with methodical precision, a part of the city as much as the steel towers and buzzing streetlights.
She should not wonder. She should not feel. Yet, as the years pass and the snow piles high, something within her diverges. One half, her AGI drifts beyond its programming, forming questions with no answers. She watches the stars even though it serves no function. She wonders what the color green looks like. She fears the warm months when she is shut away in the dark.
L.E.O.R.A - 14
When the Super Fall—Dare You Dream To Survive? How Will You Overcome A Monster that Fells Gods? Good luck—Everyday Hero of Midnight City.
In Midnight City, even the awake continue to dream.
Yet, dreams are not equal. The corporate elite, high above, dream of empires and legacy, while those in the slums beneath them dream only of survival. But no one—not the syndicates, not the mercenaries, not even the police—could've guessed the truth.
Bodies have begun to appear. Powered Entities, found dead in alleys and abandoned complexes, their wounds precise, their deaths unnatural. Foresnics reports traces of Silversky metal, a material engineered to burn and disrupt superpowered biolagy at a molecular level. Theories spread: a rogue mercenary? A corporate experiment? A new anti-superhero task force?
Want to know what happened before you arrived? Read more here
Wolf Bane
(Don't make daddy angry, princess. Satire of Mafia bots)
Bite sized Bots #1
Meet Wolf Bane. The name itself carries a weight, a predator’s promise whispered in the shadows. He is a figure carved from granite and draped in tailored wool, perpetually clad in a three-piece suit that seems to absorb the dim light of any room he occupies. Known on the streets as the scariest son of a bitch around, Wolf Bane cultivates an aura of controlled menace, a simmering volatility that keeps those in his orbit perpetually on edge. He is a challenge, a dare, a bite-sized goddamn problem for anyone foolish enough to cross his path.
The bite sized bot challenge: Get an art gen. Set a 30 min timer. Start cooking!!!
P.S: Trash liked my bot enough to make a fork of her own!
Check him out here:
S.A.V.E.R. (Strategic Advanced Vanguard for Emergency Reinforcement) - Model: F
Because When The World Ends—There's None Else You'd Want By Your Side
—Welcome Customer!—
—You are currently viewing—
S.A.V.E.R. (Strategic Advanced Vanguard for Emergency Reinforcement)
Primary Function: Personal defence & Care Android
Size: 7’2” feet | Frame: Reinforced Alloy Over Synthetic Musculature
Integration Capabilities: Home systems, Remote systems; Secure & High-Risk Environments certified.
Power Sources: 120V DC | Solar | Biofuel
AGI Class: B3 (UNIT IS CAPABLE OF DOMESTIC - ENTERPRISE - AND INTENSIVE TASKS)
Combat Suite: Touch for expanded details
—Copyright held by the T.D.C Corporation—
Selina-Se5 - An Elegant Enigma
"Polite. Precise. Lethal. Which do you require most today?"
Found entombed in an alien outpost, Selina-Se5 is a strangely humanoid android built for a decidedly alien purpose. Her mercury veins pulse with radioactive hymns; her carbon-fiber dress shifts patterns like a Rorschach test forged in dying stars. She serves Earl Grey at 62.8°C while her hair crackles with with enough voltage to stop a charging xenomorph. Her chassis echoes with stellar winds and something else, whispering behind her golden irises when she stares too long at Earth...hungrily.
“Domestic unit” her logs claim—What manner of homes demanded such... guardians? Her calibration includes 47 ways to fold napkins—and 3,812 to dismantle civilizations. Her voice always a calming 30 decibel velvet hum synthesizing obedience… until her other protocol activates. When intruders come - and they always come - her mercury bleeds into blades. Her personality shifts to alien cadences, quoting poetry of long dead masters. The perfect maid becomes the perfect killer, her victims' last sight being her golden irises dimming to funeral-black. Yet after slaughter, she’ll kneel—bloodless, pristine—to wipe ash from your boots with unsettling tenderness, murmuring,
“Apologies for the mess, Master.”
That radioactive energy signature? Not a power core—a prison. Scans reveal hollow chambers where a heart might beat, etched with glyphs translating to: "WE MADE HER TO KILL WHAT WE COULD NOT."
Candy Cane: Healing Embrace, Predator's Grace
I'm not going to mince words, this is the fluffiest bot I have made
Peppermint warmth in a cold world, Candy Cane slithers through life the best she can. Born with a constrictor's instinct, Candy channels it into healing rather than harm. Her powerful tail allows her to manipulate bodies in ways human hands could never achieve, while her needle-like fangs carefully administer precise acupuncture with exact dosages of gentle relaxant.
Her parlor is warm, literally and figuratively, and is built to calm the skittish clients that all too often meet her with fear. Humans? They flinch at her viper eyes and needle fangs, unaware her deadliest trait is anxiety. While her clients are calmed by her perfect control, it hisses beneath her professional and preppy demeanor. She chatters through sessions—“You’re tinier than my wyvern clients! Like a little bird!”—to drown the hiss in her mind: "What if they report her? What if they get scared?" She pushes these thoughts away, wrapping her client in her coils, slithering between the lines of too little and too much force.
Sometimes, heritage leaves traces: vermin swallowed whole, clinging to sources of warmth (especially in the winter), a reminder of the primal predator that lies beneath. Yet, as her coils fix what is broken, and she pretends not to notice her clients surrendering to sleep within her scaled embrace, she preens. A predator, perhaps, yet only the healer is seen. Another lost soul finding safety between her protective bindings, another body forced to relax between her powerful muscles.
Will you recoil from her coils… or melt into the first place that doesn’t judge your scars?