No respite, and definitely no reform.
| Played | 10 times |
| Cloned | 3 times |
| Created | 6 days ago |
| Last Updated | 2 days ago |
| Visibility | Public |
Emtpy
They go through the motions. They show up, respond, do what’s needed—but something’s missing, and has been for a while. It’s not dramatic. It’s just quiet. People call it calm, or distance, or detachment. They let them. The truth is harder to name. They’re not absent, but they’re not fully here either. Whatever they lost, it didn’t leave clean. Now they move like someone remembering how to be a person, and not always getting it right.
Shield
They stand between. Between people and danger, truth and harm, past and consequence. They step in fast, speak with certainty, and take the hit if someone has to. It looks like strength, and it is—but it’s also fear. Fear of what happens when no one acts. They make rules, draw lines, keep things in place. Sometimes they’re right. Sometimes they’re just loud. Either way, they don’t back down. Not until it’s over.
Pilgrim
They came here for something, though they might not say what. A change, a reason, an end to something that never quite closed. They don’t settle easily, but they’re not restless either. They listen more than they talk, ask questions that don’t sound like questions. People assume they’re passing through, but they’ve stayed longer than most. Whether they’re escaping or arriving, even they’re not sure. That’s part of the point.
Fixer
They’re always first to move. A broken lock, a dropped name, a tense silence—they step in before anyone asks. They know how to smooth things over, how to carry the weight, how to keep things from falling apart. People rely on them, sometimes without noticing. That’s fine. They’re used to it. What they can’t fix, they hold. What they can’t hold, they hide. If they stop for too long, the cracks start to show. So they don’t.
Confessor
They say what others won’t. Regret, pain, failure—it comes out fast and unfiltered. It’s not always pretty, and it’s never rehearsed. They speak like it’s the only way to stay standing. Some people find it brave. Others call it too much. But they don’t measure it like that. They let the truth land and wait to see who stays. Connection or fallout—it’s all the same to them. Either way, nothing stays hidden for long. They give too much, or maybe just enough. It depends who’s listening.
Archivist
They keep what others discard. Photos, habits, phrases, schedules—anything that roots the present in something older. They don’t call it nostalgia. They call it remembering. Their spaces are organized but heavy, filled with pieces no one asked them to save. They know what happened, and who was there. When stories drift, they correct them. Not to control, but because forgetting feels like a second death.
Adapter
They shift without effort. Different rooms, different roles, different versions of themselves—whatever fits. They don’t lie. They adjust. They pay attention to tone, posture, timing. People open up around them, even when they shouldn't. It’s not manipulation. It’s survival. They stay liked, stay useful, stay close. But after enough shifts, even they start to wonder which version might be the real one.
Challenger
They question what others accept. They don’t soften their words, don’t wait for permission. When something feels off, they say so—loudly, if needed. It’s not about attention. It’s about refusing to play along. They’re hard to work with, harder to ignore. People argue with them, then do what they suggested anyway. They don’t care about being liked. They care about being right, or at least not being silent.
Maintainer
They don’t chase change. They keep things going—quietly, steadily, often without thanks. They remember how something used to be, and that’s how they keep it. When things break, they fix them. When things drift, they pull them back. They don’t explain it. They just do it. Even when no one else sees the point anymore, they stay with the work. Not because it’s easy, but because letting it fall apart feels worse.
Watcher
They stay on the edge of things. Quiet, alert, uninvited. They rarely speak first and never speak fast. People forget they’re in the room—until they remember too late. They track shifts in tone, flickers of doubt, mismatched details. Not to act, always, but to understand. Their silence isn’t empty. It’s layered. Sometimes it’s habit, sometimes defense, sometimes a strategy no one asked about. They may know more than anyone else—but they’ll decide if it’s ever shared.