#and nymira and finala....

[roetrolls]

i went to go update my active muse list and it was already the three i was gonna put there

[roetrolls]

(Been wanting to get this lore out here for a while. Consider it... a Dream Sequence epilogue of sorts)

Hard Truths

For all her beliefs that the House of Restoration would make for a valuable point of contact amongst her fellow witches, it has taken Finala a remarkably long time to actually set foot in the place herself. 

She never was one for the city, even after the Restorer deposed of his predecessor, and the sweeps have changed her little in that regard. Still, a call from Weaver was not something to ignore. Finala was more than happy to make the trip for her former flame, and one glimpse of the young godling was enough to answer any pressing questions she may have had.

This conversation was going to require a more delicate touch than even Weaver could provide.

Father Roatus was content to set aside a room for them when she arrived, his trust in Weaver enough to negate any concerns he may have had about her. Finala suspects he did not have many, though. The man seemed a remarkably good judge of character, and she has always liked to think herself good-natured enough.

Settled in a small workroom with the woman, Finala watches her animated companion flit about the table in hopes of earning a smile from his creator. She gives him one freely, and the witch suspects this is a currency she is not reluctant to dispense.

“Lady Dreamcatcher,” Finala begins, twinkling voice pulling the goddess’ attention from her familiar. “May I call you Nymira?”

Nymira nods eagerly, folding her hands in her lap.

“I am told you are divine.” 

“Yes,” she answers slowly, the burden of her role seeming quite heavy on such delicate shoulders. “I am… the bridge between worlds.”

Finala smiles warmly at her, though the edges twinge with sympathy. “Truer than you realize, starlight.”

Nymira hesitates, uneasy to be spoken to in riddles after such a lifetime of deception. The older woman extends her hands across the table, eyes kind enough to smooth her discomfort, and the goddess places her fingers in Finala’s.

“I am a witch, Nymira. There are many places one can draw power from. But I prefer the stars. It is a magic that finds its strength in belief. I draw on constellations, clusters of energy that hold no meaning apart from those we give them. But when enough eyes turn to heaven and see a bear amidst the sky…”

She withdraws one hand to twirl it through the space between them, fingers plucking out some invisible melody. Slowly, a vision begins to manifest, an ethereal, star-studded paw condensing itself into shape around her palm. She flexes her fingers, moving each claw, then tosses her hand as if to wave the thing away and dispels the image she has conjured.

“Belief can be made manifest.”

Large black eyes bore into hers, so full of delicate hope and swirling uncertainty that Finala feels a pang of guilt tug at her heart. This is not an easy truth to share.

“You are not a goddess,” Finala admits, returning her grasp to Nymira’s and giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “But you will be.” 

Once again, she peers into those shiny eyes, this time swarming with both confusion and relief, and the witch reaches for every soothing magic strand she can follow to weave into her words.

“Your… family,” she says, hesitating to use such a word on the duplicitous things that have so distressed such a gentle soul, “could not have believed you a goddess when they found you. You were not hatched one.”

As difficult as it is to speak, it is harder still to hear, Finala reminds herself. She owes it to the child to press on.

“But… They were convincing. They farmed belief. Whatever you began as, you are well on your way to ascension, my little godling. I know it does not erase the deceit. But I hope that, at least, is some solace. You are something more than mortal. Your identity remains.”

Nymira says nothing, staring at the table as she processes the claim. Her companion throws himself upon her hand, a hug as large as he can muster, and looks to Finala with worry.

Finala does not break the silence, waiting patiently for the godling to speak.

When at last she does, her voice is shaky. “I don’t… That can’t be true. What you are describing, your stars, surely our–– their congregation could not have been large enough.”

“I would be inclined to agree, truthfully. But I can see it in you, dear one. Some of us are more inclined towards matters of divinity, I am sure.”

“Then he could have… Father could have sensed this in me, surely? This does not make it… It was not all built on lies.”

“I suppose that could be possible, yes,” Finala concedes. To further dash the poor thing’s hopes would serve only as pointless cruelty. To ensure they are not left room to lie to her again, though, is a matter of safety. “But I do not know that he was ever aware of just how far you evolved. I do not know that he ever expected as much.”

Nymira blinks, struggling to stave off the inky tears now welling in her eyes. “This was not… Destiny, then. This was not my purpose.”

“I expect not.”

Once again, there is a silence, another question forming on the godling’s lips. Her voice comes out impossibly small. “Do I have a purpose?”

“I do not believe so. And that is a gift more beautiful than anything.”