nymfey

[nymfey]

Arwen’s smile blooms the moment Neyvin mentions the Feywild, her whole face lighting up with a soft, otherworldly glow that seems to amplify the crystalline shimmer of the water around them.    Her golden eyes grow distant, faraway, as though she can already see it in her mind’s eye—the wild, glorious tapestry of her home, unfurling in hues and scents no mortal could ever fully comprehend.

❛ Oh, it’s lovely, ❜    she murmurs, voice soft as petals drifting down in the morning light.    Her hands trace gentle patterns in the water, as if conjuring up the Feywild in miniature.    ❛ I can’t believe that for so long I took for granted just how beautiful, and free, the Feywilds are.    There, it feels as though every leaf and every stone has a soul of its own, as if the land itself breathes and sings. ❜    Her voice dips, wistful, and she touches a finger to her temple, brushing a stray lock of pink hair that glimmers in the glow of the crystal-lit water.    ❛ And now that I can’t go back, because of this parasite . . . ❜    the warmth in her gaze falters, tinged with a quiet longing,    ❛ I feel like I’d give anything just to see it one more time. ❜

The words come freely, though she hadn’t meant to say so much.    It’s rare for her to speak of home so openly.    She looks to Neyvin then, smiling faintly, and her voice grows soft, almost reverent.    ❛ In the Feywild, mountains rise taller and sharper, like the spears of giants.    Rivers run faster and clearer, singing as they tumble over stones.    Flowers bloom with colors that would dazzle your eyes—petals like drops of liquid sunlight, or the deepest shades of twilight. ❜    Her gaze drifts upwards, as if she could see through the earthen ceiling to the stars beyond.    

Neyvin’s gentle question pulls her back, and she laughs softly, a sound like bells caught in the breeze.    ❛ Yes—silk.    And velvet.    Those I would say are my favorite fabrics. ❜    Her fingers brush the surface of the water, her mind drifting to memories of softness, of sensations that linger like faint fragrances.    ❛ Silk reminds me of petals . . .   the way flowers feel beneath your fingers, smooth and delicate.    And velvet reminds me of fur.    The softness of foxes and squirrels, and how they brush past you like whispers in the undergrowth. ❜

For a moment, she looks to Neyvin, studying their face with a gentle, thoughtful gaze.    She’s struck again by the kindness there, by the subtle strength tempered with warmth—a blend of qualities she rarely finds in mortals.    Her heart aches for them and the grief she knows they carry, as if some quiet chord in her soul resonates with their sorrow.

❛ I don’t think it’s foolish to hope,”    she says softly, her voice almost a whisper.    ❛ Without hope, then . . .   what’s the point of moving forward? ❜    She lets the words linger in the air, her gaze still fixed on him, steady and sincere.    But even now, even with the parasite lodged in her mind, with the looming threat of transformation into something monstrous, she feels that same pull toward life, toward possibility.    To abandon hope would mean to abandon the strange beauty of this world—the one she came here to explore, to understand.    Yes, there is danger, and yes, there is cruelty, but there is also kindness.    And beauty.    And perhaps that is enough.

Her gaze drifts away, and her thoughts turn, uneasily, to what lies ahead.    The shadow-cursed lands.    Halsin had spoken of them in grim tones.    She feels a ripple of dread at the thought, the shadows pressing in on her, cold and unfamiliar.    But there is curiosity too—a fierce spark of wonder that refuses to be extinguished, even by the prospect of such terrible things.

She looks back to Neyvin, her voice soft but unsteady.    ❛ So you have been through these . . .   Shadow-Cursed Lands that Halsin speaks of? ❜    The words come out in a hush, as if saying them too loudly would summon the darkness itself.    ❛ Are the shadows as cruel as he says?    I have to admit, I’ve been . . .   nervous about traveling through it.    More than nervous. ❜    She lets out a small, shaky breath, meeting his gaze with a look that’s both open and vulnerable.    ❛ Terrified, actually. ❜

She looks away, watching the tiny waves she’s made with a movement of her hand beneath the water, as if the movement could soothe her unease.    ❛ Despite everything, I think . . .    this world still has wonders to offer.    Strange, beautiful things that make all the danger worth it.    Perhaps . . .   perhaps that’s foolish of me, too. ❜     She lets out a quiet laugh, though there’s a note of sadness beneath it.    ❛ But if it is foolish, then I would rather be a fool than lose the wonder that brought me here. ❜

@harpersoath sent: the nudity is entirely optional.

The nymph stands at the edge of the hot spring, her toes curling into the mossy stones as she unwinds the last remnants of her worn, patchwork clothing of pink and blue hues.    The underdark is shadowy around them, yet the glow of the crystals embedded in the water brings a surprising warmth to the air, casting shimmering reflections on the walls and catching in her vibrant hair like stray stardust.    She feels the natural pull of this place—a small oasis of beauty in the vast, twisted shadow of the underdark.    It reminds her, fleetingly, of the Feywild.    Not in its brightness or color, but in the way it feels like it doesn’t entirely belong here, like it’s a wild, untamed secret in a land that shouldn’t have secrets this soft.

She lets her wings manifest fully.    Translucent and shimmering, they arch from her bare back in delicate patterns, glowing faintly in the ethereal light of the crystals.    There was a time, not so long ago, when she’d hidden them whenever she neared the settlements of mortals.    Hidden them from even her companions. Mortals, she’d learned early, saw her wings as prizes or threats.    But here, in this strange and peculiar band of travelers—no one seems to look at her wings with greed or fear, only curiosity.    It’s a small gift, and she treasures it, this freedom to let herself be.

She steps into the water without hesitation, feeling the heat seep through her skin, unwinding knots of tension she hadn’t even known she’d carried.    Her entire body relaxes, sinking deeper until the water laps at her shoulders, the soft mineral scent mingling with the faint floral fragrance that always seems to cling to her pale pink skin.   Neyvin is there, already settled against the stones, his massive frame softened by the mist and the glow.    

So often, mortals are bound by strange discomforts, their gazes slipping away from bare skin as if it were a secret forbidden to be shared.    But Neyvin had looked her in the eyes, unbothered and honest, their acceptance of her casual nudity gentle.    It made her feel safe, somehow, made her feel like she was with someone who saw the world with a touch of her own wild simplicity.

Her golden gaze finds the others, and for a moment, she studies her in the low light, her expression softening into something warm and genuine.    ❛ It’s natural where I come from, ❜    she replies, a hint of amusement in her tone.    She tilts her head, searching for the right words in this still-strange language.    ❛ I’m still not quite used to the way the fabric can feel . . .   itchy? ❜    She laughs softly, a gentle sound that fills the small hollow of the spring, light as the bubbling of the water around them.    She can’t help but remember her first weeks in the mortal realm, wrapping herself in roughspun linen and chafing against every seam, feeling as though she were trapped in a net.    Strange creatures, mortals, she’d thought, to cage themselves in cloth.

It would be so easy, in a place like this, to close her eyes and imagine herself back home—back in the dappled light of the Feywild.    But home is a place she can no longer reach, not with the tadpole coiled like a poison in her mind, severing her from the very essence of what she is.    The realization pulls at her, heavy and bitter, but she lets it drift away, dissolving into the steam around them.

Her gaze drifts back to Neyvin, and her expression softens even further.    There’s something achingly kind in his face, she thinks.    For all their strength, they carry a gentleness that reminds her of the forest floor in spring.    She knows what it feels like to wear that kind of sadness, to be haunted by the weight of things lost.

❛ I’m terribly sorry, ❜    she says, her voice hushed, almost reverent, as though she’s speaking to the water itself.    ❛ About your scouts. ❜    She doesn’t understand the details, not fully, but she understands loss, understands the hollow ache of it.    Grief is one of the few things mortals and fey share, she’s come to realize.    It roots itself deeply, no matter where you are born.    ❛ But you’re welcome to keep traveling with us, ❜    she continues softly, offering Neyvin a gentle smile.    ❛ I understand that we are a strange lot, but we’ve kept each other safe thus far. ❜    Her gaze meets hers, steady and earnest.    ❛ We can protect you too. ❜

[nymfey]

when i see clouds, i see faces. when i see roads, i see places where we could go. when i meet strangers, i say “hello.” i come from where the wild wildflowers grow. when i hear thunder, i sing along. ‘cause i’m the daughter of where i’m from. a starlit sky will always guide me home. i come from where the wild wildflowers grow.

[nymfey]

sad quotes : from a mix of sources … sentence starters

“I was happy… once.”

“Do you think I could be saved?”

“There’s no reasoning with grief.”

“I am so tired of being so scared.”

“If this is reality, I’m not interested.”

“I put all my trust in an empty dream.”

“But what is grief if not love persevering?”

“I was too young to know how to love her.“

“I’m too young for eyes this sad, this tired.”

“You’re all duct tape and safety pins inside.”

“If you’re happy in a dream, does that count?”

“I can survive on my own. I have for this long.”

“I don’t want to give up hope… it’s all I have left.”

“I didn’t make the choice to give this up. You did.”

“How long have you carried this, all on your own?”

“I loved her… and, sometimes, she loved me, too.”

“Tears come from the heart and not from the brain.“

“Maybe some people are just made to be shattered.”

“There is no way to train your heart to be invulnerable.“

“You said you’d always be there for me, but you’re not.“

“I don’t trust anyone else. I can barely even trust myself.”

“Sometimes it’s better to be alone. Nobody can hurt you.“

“You don’t love me. You don’t. Love doesn’t hurt like this.”

“All that could be said has… and it hasn’t solved anything.”

“No one heard me screaming, then. How could they, now?”

“They’ve dulled your light. Even your smile is dimmer, now.”

“You were supposed to be my escape… not another prison.”

“How long am I supposed to wander before I can find home?”

“I hid my deepest feelings so well I forgot where I placed them.“

“Grief is not as heavy as guilt, but it takes more away from you.“

“I have to keep moving. Eventually, someday, I’ll be safe, again.”

“How can you move forward when you keep regretting the past?“

“Things change. And friends leave. Life doesn’t stop for anybody.“

“I should have been there. I should have done something, anything.”

“No matter how gifted you are… You, alone, cannot change the world.“

“Nothing… there is nothing I can do that will make my heart less heavy.”

“Loneliness is peaceful, but there’ll be no one to share happiness with.“

“Please don’t go away… No one’s ever stuck with me for so long before.“

“You know, a heart can be broken, but it keeps on beating, just the same.”

“I just want you to be happy. Even if that happiness no longer includes me.”

“People keep telling me that life goes on, but to me, that’s the saddest part.”

“I thought I could just apologize tomorrow. But that tomorrow… never came.“

“How has the weight of this not crushed you? How are you still able to smile?”

“The one you love and the one who loves you are never, ever the same person.”

“The scariest and the most painful thing is to be hated by someone you truly love.“

“Happiness is a fleeting notion. It fills you with false hope. Grief keeps you grounded.”

“Breathing is hard. When you cry so much, it makes you realize that breathing is hard.“

“Nothing has ever hurt more than realizing, in your darkest moment, you’re truly alone.”

“You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness.“

“Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.”

“I know what it’s like to want to die. How it hurts to smile. How you try to fit in, but you can’t.”

“But, if you want to leave, you can. I’ll remember you, though. I remember everyone that leaves.”

“You can love someone so much… But you can never love people as much as you can miss them.“

“Why should I apologize for being a monster? Has anyone ever apologized for turning me into one?“

“I have to believe that there are still good people in the world. I have to believe that kindness persists.”

“You have been, in every way, all that anyone could be… If anybody could have saved me, it would have been you.”

“So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad, and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be.”

“Every human walks around with a certain kind of sadness. They may not wear it on their sleeves, but it’s there if you look deep.”

“But grief makes a monster out of us sometimes… and sometimes you say and do things to the people you love that you can’t forgive yourself for.“

“People think being alone makes you lonely, but I don’t think that’s true. Being surrounded by the wrong people is the loneliest thing in the world.”

“The loneliest people are the kindest. The saddest people smile the brightest. The most damaged people are the wisest. All because they don’t wish to see anyone else suffer the way they did.“

[nymfey]

immaculate ✨ spicy ✨ arwen vibes right here.

[nymfey]

@oathguard ✵ closed starter.

Arwen sits by the water’s edge, cradled in the silver hush of midnight.    The stars above, strange and distant, scatter like pinpricks across a deep velvet sky, so different from the wilder constellations of her homeland.    The chill of night air presses against her skin, grounding her in this unfamiliar realm, where danger and beauty walk hand in hand.    She draws in another slow breath from her pipe, the smoke filling her lungs.    It tastes faintly of dew-drenched petals and morning mist, with an afterglow that settles behind her eyes, softening the edges of her worried, frayed thoughts.

The plant in the bowl of her pipe is something she’d plucked herself, deep in the heart of the Feywild, from a grove that murmured in a language older than any mortal tongue.   She breathes out, watching as the smoke curls into the night air, spiraling up like a wisp of cloud before it fades.    The quiet laps around her like water, deep and soothing, yet laced with an undercurrent of sorrow.    She has spent her life as a daughter of the wilds, a creature of light and laughter, wandering the woods with songbirds at her side.    To die here, tethered to a strange, foreign land, before she’s even had a chance to understand it—there’s a sharpness to that thought that cuts deep.    This wasn’t how she’d imagined her grand adventure.   But perhaps that’s the nature of adventures:    they rarely take the shape one expects.

Lost in her reverie, she barely registers the sound of footsteps until they are almost upon her.    She turns her head, eyes widening slightly, and the motion sends a puff of smoke trailing from her lips, a soft cloud that catches the light of the moon.    She coughs—an undignified little choke that she waves away with one hand, her fingers light and fluttering, as if to brush the smoke from the air.

❛ Sorry, ❜    she murmurs, her accented voice a soft, melodic thing, caught halfway between laughter and apology.    Her pale pink cheeks flush slightly, though whether from the cough or from surprise, even she couldn’t say.    She hadn’t expected anyone else to be awake.    The others had slipped into slumber, one by one, weary bodies yielding to the demands of the mortal world.   And though, as a fey who gets most of her energy and nutrients from the rays of the sun like a plant, she still understands the need for the others to rest. 

❛ I didn’t realize anyone was still awake, ❜    she adds, her tone gentle, almost lilting, as she tucks a strand of pink hair behind one pointed ear.    The golden light of her eyes finds Dram’szin, this half-drow who has joined their company with his own enigmatic purpose.  ❛ I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d . . .   unwind. ❜    Her voice trails off, as if the word itself is foreign, some piece of mortal slang she’s picked up along her journey.

❛ In my village, ❜    she says carefully, the lie slipping like silk from her lips, though it leaves an odd taste in her mouth,    ❛ we call this ard. ❜    She lets the word linger in the air, an echo of her own world, though she knows it sounds strange here, stripped of its meaning.    ❛ It’s good for . . .   stress relief.    Pain relief.    And it can offer a sense of . . .   euphoria, ❜    she says, pronouncing the last word slowly, as if tasting it for the first time in the common tongue.

She watches him, curiosity sparking in her gaze as she extends the pipe, its silvery wood glinting faintly in the moonlight.    It’s an invitation—a quiet offering of her world to his.    Her supply is dwindling, true, but it’s in her nature to share.    Good things, she’s learned, grow even sweeter in the company of others.    ❛ Would you like to try some? ❜

[nymfey]

𝐇𝐂 ﹕ A full-blooded nymph’s tears contain potent and powerful magic, enough to make some incredibly robust potions  ﹕  sleep potions, healing potions, skill boosting potions, etc.   If her tears were to fall and hit the ground, flowers would immediately bloom where they dropped.    And if you look closely enough, you’ll even notice that when she cries, her tears are quite literally flecked with shimmers of glitter.   

[nymfey]

the forest reaches out to guide me; blue fire paths of will-o-wisps, illuminate the darkness’ old tricks. i’m nobody’s captive. i asked him not to kill me politely. he drained my magic core, bottled up at the source.

[nymfey]

𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝. 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢’𝐦 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.

[nymfey]

Arwen tilts her head, her eyes widening just slightly.    ❛ Virgins? ❜    she echoes, her voice as light as the summer breeze that stirs her pink hair.    There’s no judgment in her tone, only curiosity, as if he’d spoken of an unusual flower rather than a peculiar desire.    ❛ Do you prefer . . .   inexperience? ❜    The word rolls off her tongue like something exotic, almost foreign, and she can’t help the small, thoughtful frown that follows.    Mortals have the oddest fascinations sometimes.    But she has learned not to press too hard—many of them are like startled foxes, ready to flee at the slightest intrusion.

When he mentions her tears, her gaze drops again, lingering on the glimmering flecks at her fingertips.    A reminder of her own strangeness in this world, as if her very sadness has betrayed her with its shimmering magic.    A nymph’s tears hold potent power.   She tries to brush the traces away, pressing her hand into the soft fabric of her dress until the sparkles are faint smudges on pink and blue fabric.    If only her tears could cleanse the curse lodged within her mind—a parasite that pulses with alien intent, a constant reminder of her imprisonment in this unfamiliar realm.

❛ Unfortunately, my sadness can’t grant us wishes, ❜    she says softly, a hint of regret woven through the lilting cadence of her voice.    Then, her smile brightens, chasing away the lingering shadows.    Her gaze lifts, luminous with renewed purpose.    ❛ But . . .   I think I can help with the sprucing. ❜

The druidic fey places one pale hand on the soil beside her, fingers sinking into the earth as if she’s greeting an old friend.    A soft, rose-colored glow blooms at her fingertips, radiating outward in gentle waves.    Magic flows from her hand like a sigh of relief, reaching down into the roots beneath her, whispering to the earth.    The ground stirs in response, and then, as if by some invisible invitation, roots twist and unfurl, weaving through the soil toward the edge of the camp.

All around them, the trees begin to respond, their branches trembling, stretching, growing as flowers bloom along their limbs in a riot of colors—a symphony of pinks, blues, yellows, and purples.    Green ivy winds its way up trunks and along low-hanging branches, curling and twisting until the camp is ringed in a living, vibrant tapestry.    The air fills with the faint perfume of blossoms, delicate and sweet, a reminder of distant meadows untouched by mortal hands.    

Satisfied, Arwen plucks a fresh, new daisy from the ground in front of her, its petals a bright, cheerful yellow, like a miniature sun resting between her fingers.    Without a second thought, she leans forward, her movements unselfconscious, as natural as breathing.     She tucks the daisy into Astarion’s white hair, just above his pointed ear, letting it nestle among the pale strands like it belongs there.

She sits back, her gaze warm, pleased, and just a touch mischievous.    ❛ I didn’t think it was possible for you to be prettier, ❜    she murmurs, a soft laugh threading through her words like a bird’s song,    ❛ and yet . . . ❜

Her smile lingers, and her golden eyes shine with a faint, fey brightness, as if some small corner of the Feywild has found its way here, in this quiet moment between them.    The night is softened, gentled by her magic, and for a heartbeat, it feels as if they’re seated in an enchanted glade rather than a makeshift camp in a world filled with dangers.    She breathes in the fragrance of the flowers, and for just a moment, she can almost imagine she’s home.

@palespawn sent: are you always like this?

Arwen sits across from the pale elf, her hands folded primly in her lap, fingers curled around the fabric of her dress as if to ground herself.    She’s been speaking to him—about their predicament, about the tadpole nestled insidiously within her mind, but her voice has grown softer, her words trailing off into nothing.    An unexpected ache rises in her chest, thick and heavy, like vines twining around her ribcage.

The smell of earth and fire is so different from the wild, intoxicating scents of the Feywild—of crushed lavender and dewy moss, of sunlight distilled into the petals of flowers.    She aches for it, for the light that filters through the leaves like liquid gold, for the melody of distant laughter echoing from glens she’s never seen.    She had never imagined she could feel lost, not in a world so vast and beautiful, yet here she is—cut off from the only home she’s ever known, bound by flesh and fear to a place that does not understand her.

The thought is almost too much to bear.    She draws a deep breath, trying to swallow the sorrow that threatens to spill over, but it’s too late.    A single tear escapes, sliding down her cheek in a slow, glimmering trail, as if stardust itself had taken liquid form.    The tear catches the firelight, shimmering with a faint, enchanted glow that leaves a trace of sparkles across her pale pink skin, like a comet’s tail.    She lifts a hand to wipe it away, but even then, faint flecks of glitter linger on her fingertips and cheek, unbidden magic betraying her grief.

Then she hears his question—a bemused murmur, almost a drawl.    “Are you always like this?”

The words pull her from her sorrow like a fish hooked from a stream, and she looks up, meeting his ruby eyes.    For a moment, she simply blinks, becoming aware of herself, the faint scent of roses and honeysuckle that she knows clings to her skin.    The self-awareness hits like a splash of cold water, and she feels a small flush creeping up to the tips of her ears, though she tries to mask it with a soft, wavering smile.

❛ No, ❜    the druid says, her voice a delicate wisp, like the breath of a lullaby.    ❛ I’m not. ❜

She giggles then, a light, airy sound, though it trembles at the edges, fragile as spider silk.    Her gaze falls, and she reaches up to tuck a stray strand of pink hair behind her ear, the movement absent.    ❛ Usually, I’m a lot more . . .   how do you say . . . ❜    Her accent curls around the common words like the ripple of a breeze, lilting and soft, as if the language is something she’s only recently learned to shape with her mouth.    She hesitates, searching for the right word, and finally lands on one that feels close enough.    ❛ Bright. ❜

There’s a melancholy warmth in her smile as she says it, a faint spark of that brightness she’s always carried, but it’s dimmed now, shadowed by fear and longing.    She lets out a soft sigh, fingers twisting in her lap as if to soothe herself, though the words that come next make her voice drop to a murmur.    ❛ I just—I’m afraid.    And I wish to go home. ❜

[nymfey]

Arwen watches him, her heart twisting in a way she cannot name, like roots entwined too tightly around stone.    The look in Puck’s eyes . . .   it nearly undoes her.    She doesn’t understand how a person can be both the storm and the wreckage it leaves behind, but there he stands, torn between grief and something darker, like a shadow fighting to free itself from his own skin.    She wants to reach out, to offer him some bit of solace, though she doesn’t fully know what to make of this mortal, this strange creature with darkness in his blood and sorrow in his gaze.

She takes a step forward, hesitating only a moment before letting her hand rest on his shoulder.    The warmth of her touch blooms with a faint pink light, soft as dawn’s first blush.    She lets her magic seep into him, gentle as rainwater, letting it pool in his muscles, easing the tension that coils within him like a snake.    She can feel his heartbeat beneath her fingers, a wild, restless thing, and she silently wills her own magic to soothe it, to quiet the rage and the fear that cling to him like thorns.

❛ Let me see something . . . ❜    she murmurs, her voice low and soft, as if speaking any louder might startle him away.

Her fingertips glide from his shoulder to his chest, settling over his heart, the glow intensifying just slightly as she closes her eyes.    She knows this is foolish, knows the danger of standing so close to him, knows she’s inviting risk by allowing herself this nearness to someone so . . .   unpredictable.    But Arwen has never been one to heed such warnings, especially not when someone is hurting.

She sends her magic spiraling through him, an invisible, searching tendril that flows like springwater, slipping through his veins, his bones, his very spirit.    She seeks out anything that feels wrong—any sickness, any curse, any blight that might explain the dark force she saw ripple through him.    But there is nothing, save for the mind flayer’s tadpole, an unwanted squirming echo of her own affliction.    And though it worries her, that writhing presence within them both, it doesn’t feel like the source of his torment, his violence.    Arwen opens her eyes, letting her hand fall away.

❛ You aren’t sick, ❜    she says softly, her voice like a distant song carried on the breeze, sweet and sorrowful.    ❛ At least, nothing that I can find. ❜     She searches his face again, as if the answer might be written there in some hidden language she has yet to learn.    And though she doesn’t understand why or how he came to do what he did, there is an ache in her heart that tells her he suffers for it.   

❛ But . . .   I believe you, ❜    she continues, her tone growing even softer, as if she’s sharing some small, fragile secret.    ❛ That it was an accident. ❜    Her gaze drifts back to the remnants of the squirrel, a broken thing in the grass, robbed of its brightness and breath.    A part of her mourns for it, as she does for all lives lost too soon.    But there is a comfort in her faith, a solace in her beliefs that she offers him now, a quiet balm for his shame.

❛ She’s with the Oak Father now, ❜    Arwen murmurs, the words lilting and soft, more like a blessing than an assurance.    ❛ Far better off with him, in the shade of the great trees, than here, with us.    Mortal life . . .   it can be heavy and cruel.    And she is freed of it. ❜

@bloodtwin liked for a thing !

The druid stares at the bloodied tree, frozen, her breath catching in her throat.    The squirrel—tiny, innocent, a creature of no more threat than a summer breeze—had been there one moment, lively as anything, chittering about with its bushy tail twitching.    And then, in an instant, it was gone, replaced by a dark smear of blood and fur, painting the bark in a grisly mockery of life.    She blinks, once, twice, as if her mind is struggling to piece together what she’s seen.    Slowly, she drags her gaze from the bloodied bark to the person beside her.    Puck’s face . . .    it’s strange, shifting, as if he’s waging some silent war within himself.    Shame, perhaps.    He seems as surprised as she feels.

❛ Wh- . . .    why? ❜    she stammers, her voice soft, trembling slightly.    Her pale golden eyes search his face, seeking some answer, something that will make sense of the act she’s just witnessed.   ❛ Why would you do that? ❜    she asks, her words barely above a whisper, thick with confusion and sadness.

She feels the urge to step back from him, to put some space between herself and this mortal with blood on his hands and darkness in his eyes.    But she stands her ground, feeling the ache of sorrow settle over her, heavy as a shroud.    In the Feywild, everything was simpler.    Life and death, beauty and danger—these were woven together in ways she could understand, harmonized like the notes of a song.    But here, in the mortal realm, nothing fits together so neatly.    Puck is violent and strange, dangerous and kind, a storm of contradictions she cannot unravel.   

❛ Is . . .   is there something wrong inside of you, Puck? ❜    Her voice trembles again, and her gaze softens, the sharp edge of fear melting into something gentler.    She does not understand mortals—she is still learning, still struggling to comprehend their endless, beautiful, messy souls.   

[nymfey]

@iron-hearts-ablaze ✵ cont’d from here.

The druid tilts her head, her pale gold eyes shimmering with that fey brilliance that makes her seem as if she’s listening to more than just Karlach’s words—like she’s hearing some secret music in the spaces between them.    There’s a softness to her gaze as she studies Karlach, an admiration so unguarded that it’s almost vulnerable.    The campfire casts a gentle glow on Karlach’s face, and Arwen finds herself wondering, not for the first time, how someone could carry so much fire within and still be so capable of such softness.

❛ I come from a village, ❜    she begins, though the word sits awkwardly on her tongue, like a pebble in her shoe.    She can’t exactly say Feywild without giving away what she is.   But Karlach wouldn’t see her as something to fear, or something valuable to sell . . . would she? No. Not Karlach. Still, she hesitates. She glances down, brushing a stray lock of pink hair behind her ear, almost as if the action could hide her hesitation,    ❛ . . .    a place where everyone lived in harmony with nature, and with the creatures who called it home.    Softness wasn’t seen as weakness there.    It was the way of things.    To be anything else would have felt like going against the heartbeat of the forest. ❜

She looks up again, her gaze settling on Karlach, and there’s a wistful smile playing on her pink lips.    ❛ I don’t believe it’s ever foolish to be soft, or to be kind.    Out here . . .   I see so much hurt, so much weariness in people’s eyes, even in those who laugh the loudest or boast the boldest. ❜    She pauses, the smile fading into something more thoughtful, almost mournful.    ❛ It’s as though everyone carries invisible wounds.    Old, unseen things that weigh down their hearts.    Sometimes, it doesn’t take much to ease that burden—just a gentle word, or a small kindness, like a spark in the dark. ❜

She leans forward slightly, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress.    ❛ It does take bravery, though, ❜    she says, almost as if she’s realizing it for herself as much as for Karlach.    ❛ To be gentle, even when the world might give you every reason not to be.    To open your heart, knowing full well that someone might try to take advantage of it . . .   or break it. ❜

Arwen’s gaze turns distant for a moment, her eyes unfocused as if she’s looking far beyond the camp, beyond the trees, to some other place that the others can’t see.    ❛ In my village, kindness is like the wildflowers that grow beneath the trees.    So delicate, but persistent.    They bloom, again and again, no matter how often they’re trampled.    Maybe . . .   maybe that’s what makes kindness strong.    Not the hardness of steel, but the quiet resilience of something that knows it may be crushed and chooses to bloom anyway. ❜

She turns back to Karlach, her expression softening into something almost shy.    ❛ I think . . .   there’s a kind of bravery in that.    And in you, Karlach. ❜    Her voice is barely above a whisper now, as if she’s afraid of disturbing the moment.    ❛ To keep choosing to be soft, even when life hasn’t been gentle with you.    I don’t think I could ever call that stupid. ❜

[nymfey]

@bloodedhearts ✵ closed starter for shadowheart.

A sliver of moon hangs high, its pale light filtering through the canopy and casting silvery dapples across the quiet forest clearing.    Shadows gather like old friends around their camp, cloaking the edges in darkness, but Arwen’s fey sight cuts through it all, seeing the beauty in every stray branch and blade of grass.    Her own presence is a soft glow of pink in the gloom—a faint shimmer of magic that clings to her, wild and untamed as her spirit.

She steps lightly, her bare feet brushing against the cool grass and earth, leaving no trace of her passage.    With a soft breath, she kneels by the entrance to Shadowheart’s tent, her fingertips brushing the soil.    Arwen has spent days at this, practicing in secret whenever she thought no one was watching.    The forests surrounding their camp are now filled with various orchids, failed attempts at conjuring Shadowheart’s favorite orchid.    She’s learned that conjuring plants of this world is not so different from coaxing life in the Feywild, but it still requires . . .   finesse.    A touch of care.    She breathes in, feeling the pulse of life under her fingers, the hum of roots and shoots stretching in answer to her call.    With a whisper of fey magic, the earth stirs, and dark petals begin to bloom.

The night orchids rise slowly, unfolding from the soil like shy dancers stepping onto an unfamiliar stage.    Their deep, velvety petals catch the faint moonlight, shimmering with hues of indigo, violet, and the black-blue of midnight skies.    And this time—finally—they’re right.   

Arwen leans back on her heels, a small, satisfied smile tugging at her pink lips as she surveys her handiwork.    The orchids frame Shadowheart’s tent like a wreath of night itself, quiet and unassuming, yet so full of life that it makes Arwen’s heart swell with a quiet joy.    She doesn’t know much of Shadowheart, only fragments and glimpses—an elegant frown here, a murmur of something hidden there.    But she does know that she loves night orchids.

She rises to her feet, when a faint sound alerts her—footsteps, light and purposeful, cutting through the quiet.    Arwen turns, caught in the glow of her own magic as she sees Shadowheart approaching, her figure emerging from the darkness with that ever-present air of silent watchfulness.    Arwen freezes, her hands hovering at her sides, feeling a rush of warmth spread across her cheeks.    She hadn’t meant to be seen;    it was supposed to be a secret gift, something to bring a touch of peace to her enigmatic companion.    But here she is, caught pink-handed.

❛ Oh—hi, ❜    she says, her voice soft but filled with that irrepressible sweetness she can never quite hide.    She tries for a casual smile, but it comes out wide and a little lopsided, like a child caught sneaking berries from the bush.   

❛ I remember you telling me that you liked night orchids so . . .   I thought this might be . . .   nice . . . ❜    Her voice trails off, tentative, the words hanging in the cool air between them.    She gestures faintly to the blooms encircling the tent, feeling a bit foolish now that she’s actually saying it out loud.    She’s never been one for subterfuge, not really.    Not like Shadowheart, with her guarded words and hidden glances.

[nymfey]

@palespawn sent: are you always like this?

Arwen sits across from the pale elf, her hands folded primly in her lap, fingers curled around the fabric of her dress as if to ground herself.    She’s been speaking to him—about their predicament, about the tadpole nestled insidiously within her mind, but her voice has grown softer, her words trailing off into nothing.    An unexpected ache rises in her chest, thick and heavy, like vines twining around her ribcage.

The smell of earth and fire is so different from the wild, intoxicating scents of the Feywild—of crushed lavender and dewy moss, of sunlight distilled into the petals of flowers.    She aches for it, for the light that filters through the leaves like liquid gold, for the melody of distant laughter echoing from glens she’s never seen.    She had never imagined she could feel lost, not in a world so vast and beautiful, yet here she is—cut off from the only home she’s ever known, bound by flesh and fear to a place that does not understand her.

The thought is almost too much to bear.    She draws a deep breath, trying to swallow the sorrow that threatens to spill over, but it’s too late.    A single tear escapes, sliding down her cheek in a slow, glimmering trail, as if stardust itself had taken liquid form.    The tear catches the firelight, shimmering with a faint, enchanted glow that leaves a trace of sparkles across her pale pink skin, like a comet’s tail.    She lifts a hand to wipe it away, but even then, faint flecks of glitter linger on her fingertips and cheek, unbidden magic betraying her grief.

Then she hears his question—a bemused murmur, almost a drawl.    “Are you always like this?”

The words pull her from her sorrow like a fish hooked from a stream, and she looks up, meeting his ruby eyes.    For a moment, she simply blinks, becoming aware of herself, the faint scent of roses and honeysuckle that she knows clings to her skin.    The self-awareness hits like a splash of cold water, and she feels a small flush creeping up to the tips of her ears, though she tries to mask it with a soft, wavering smile.

❛ No, ❜    the druid says, her voice a delicate wisp, like the breath of a lullaby.    ❛ I’m not. ❜

She giggles then, a light, airy sound, though it trembles at the edges, fragile as spider silk.    Her gaze falls, and she reaches up to tuck a stray strand of pink hair behind her ear, the movement absent.    ❛ Usually, I’m a lot more . . .   how do you say . . . ❜    Her accent curls around the common words like the ripple of a breeze, lilting and soft, as if the language is something she’s only recently learned to shape with her mouth.    She hesitates, searching for the right word, and finally lands on one that feels close enough.    ❛ Bright. ❜

There’s a melancholy warmth in her smile as she says it, a faint spark of that brightness she’s always carried, but it’s dimmed now, shadowed by fear and longing.    She lets out a soft sigh, fingers twisting in her lap as if to soothe herself, though the words that come next make her voice drop to a murmur.    ❛ I just—I’m afraid.    And I wish to go home. ❜

[nymfey]

𝐨𝐨𝐜 ﹕ good morning, i has new followers today. c: i am around, just playing arwen’s playthrough for a bit before i jump back into writing stuff here today. like this post if you would like a starter from my pink fairy lady !!

[nymfey]

ASSORTED QUESTION PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue, adjust as necessary

do you think now would be a good time?

how am i supposed to trust you after a stunt like that?

do you have any idea what that does to me?

have you ever been up north?

what was your childhood like?

do you think there's a chance for us?

what time were you planning to leave?

is there anything i can bring you?

you knew about this, and you never told me?

what did you expect me to do?

how much more of this can you take?

do you think we can find a way out of here?

can you just stop for a second and let me think?

why did you go without me?

what difference does it make?

how long can you stay?

could you bring me my jacket?

will you give me another chance?

where am i supposed to go?

when did it start raining?

will you take me with you?

can i just hear the full story first?

didn't we agree to do this together?

when did we decide to do that?

will you walk me home?

there's more to the story, isn't there?

how many were lost?

will you kiss me again later?

would you join me on the dance floor?

how many guests can we expect?

were you expecting someone else?

can i trust you?

will it always be like this?

do you smell something burning?

when did that get there?

did you move the furniture around?

was that a ghost?

is that blood?

are you playing a trick on me?

what's your favorite holiday?

did you take my gun?

would you change anything about your life?

what were you really like back then?

do i mean anything to you?

were you ever going to come back for me?

will you call me tomorrow and tell me what happens?

were you lying this whole time?

when will it end?

we're not going to survive this, are we?

did you have to be so mean about it?

would you meet me in my quarters?

is this how you flirt with everyone?

are you always like this?