SalemsSims

Dr. Brianna Wraight walks the thin line between science and shadow. By day—or more often, by long and sleepless night—she is a Forensic Pathologist, summoned to sterile morgues and bloodstained crime scenes to coax secrets from the dead. But her expertise doesn’t end with the corporeal. When curses curdle the air and hexes twist fate, it is Brianna they call. Witch. Medium. Reluctant savior. She is always on call—by badge, by blood, or by the whisper of the beyond. They say you’ll sleep when you’re dead, but Brie knows better. The dead do not rest. They stir. They speak. And they seek her out. Nor is there rest for the wicked. Especially not for one who serves both justice and the arcane. There’s little room in her life for pleasantries, less still for rest. Hers is a world of autopsies and apparitions, of midnight rituals and unsolved mysteries. She is a woman of purpose, sharpened by solitude. Busy? That’s one word for it. Haunted? That’s closer to the truth.

The rain had a habit of falling harder when things went to hell. That night was no exception. For the past year, Detective Wraight hadn’t been Wraight at all. He was Bones—a whiskey-soaked, chain-smoking ghost riding deep in the belly of the beast. The Death’s Disciples Motorcycle Club. Outlaws. Gunrunners. Killers. He’d played the part so well, even he was starting to forget who he really was. But the streets have a way of whispering secrets to the wrong ears. Now, his cover was blown, and the only thing thicker than the storm clouds overhead was the price on his head. Word was, someone wanted him dead bad enough to make it happen fast and messy. And in a city that never forgets a face, even one hidden behind leather and lies, Wraight knew it was only a matter of time before the reaper came knocking. And this time, he wouldn’t be riding a Harley.

“The way people treat you is a statement of who they are as a human being. It’s not a statement about you.”

fun fact: zubene only wears symmetrical things. they reluctantly got the tattoo on their arm and complained about it for a month because it ruined their perfect symmetry.

They call him Sawbones now. Once a man of the Crown—a navy surgeon with steady hands and a polished oath. But fate’s a cruel mistress, and the sea even crueler. When pirates spilled onto his deck like shadows with steel, he knew death was a heartbeat away. Rather than meet the deep, he made a different vow. He bent the knee, not from fear, but from the cold, calculating instinct to survive. Now he walks the line between healer and harbinger, a surgeon among savages. His tools are rusted but precise, his hands steady even as the ship lurches beneath them. He stitches torn flesh and sets shattered bones, not out of mercy, but out of necessity. Each life he saves buys him another day under the black flag. To the crew, he’s a necessary evil—respected, feared, never quite trusted. In the dim light of the hold, with the scent of blood and salt thick in the air, Sawbones carves a place for himself one incision at a time.

Call her beep her if you wanna reach her??

An ancient goddess, gone mad with time. Once she was revered. Now she's been hidden away, chained for the safety of the denizens she once benevolently ruled. But did they really shackle a god? Or did the wolf allow her lambs the illusion of safety?