We don’t know how we arrived here. We don’t know where we’re from. All we know are the names written on the piece of paper tucked deep in the pocket of our tattered clothes. The paper is worn, edges curling from the damp, but the names are still legible—our names. Our names, written as if we belong to something greater, something forgotten. There’s no context, no explanation—just our names, one after the other.
But the names aren’t just what define us. It’s the only thing we have that ties us to who we were—if we were ever anyone before this.
And now… now, we’re here. On Dragonsworth Island. A place that feels as ancient as it is alive, where the air hangs thick with secrets. The ground trembles beneath our feet, and the wind howls with voices that aren’t ours. The island itself seems to breathe, with jungles as dense as nightmares, mountains that pierce the sky, and ruins older than anything we can fathom. The land is alive, restless, and it watches us. It knows us, though we have no memory of it.
The names on that paper are all we have. Are they the names of those who came before us? Or are they ours? The uncertainty bites at us. We don’t know if we’re the first to wake on this island, or if others have walked this path before us, forgotten like so many who have been swallowed by its mysteries.
We don’t know who to trust. We don’t know who we are. All we know is that we need to survive.
Form:
Name:
Age:
G+p:
S/S:
Appearance:
Personality (3+ sentences):
Good luck!