#nymira writing

[roetrolls]

Not Out of the Woods

(I used this to help me write. Listen while you read if you want some atmosphere :3)

Gnarled branches twist and sway in the wind, creaking limbs an ashen grey in the lightening dawn. Stone in one hand and a blade in the other, Nymira steps lightly over a constellation of broken glass. The pieces crunch beneath her feet, a meager protest from the carcass of a window she has destroyed.

The trees bow to her, daring her closer. A thin stream of blood tickles her hand as she lets the rock tumble from her fingers to find a home in the sodden dirt. Five mornings spent here. Five dreams tainted by his presence. Already more than the last.

But she managed in the end.

Her summoned implement, though heavy enough to serve its purpose, was mercifully mundane, and her wits have not entirely left her. The fog in her mind is far fainter than that which swirls hungrily about her ankles, and her sights remain fixed on a single, importunate goal.

Escape.

Dazed but only just, the godling gathers her skirt into her bloodied fist and treads into the beckoning woods.

She cannot guess how far she needs to go, but she will know when it is far enough. The weight of the knife is comforting in her hand. She allows her fingers to curl tighter around the hilt, Archie’s face floating to the surface of her tense and muddled thoughts. For protection, he had said.

He will come for her.

The trees creak once more, this time accompanied by a distant crowing that plays in her ears like laughter. She has not slept since dreaming up her stone, and she can feel the hours pooling in her limbs, settling heavy in her eyelids.

There is no time to rest. Not while Persep sleeps. Rotten leaves turn to pulp beneath her feet, and the cloying mist seeps into her skin to send a shiver down her spine. She must flee while he sleeps.

He will come for her.

Nymira tries to keep her mind awake. Tries to stay thinking as she plods on, walking where the trees grow sparser and the brush does not rustle as frequently. 

Immortality.

A twig snaps. She cannot tell if it is her own doing.

His immortality, he said. 

The fog grows thicker. Nymira feels her dread do the same.

She cannot begin to guess what Persep plans to do with her. How he aims to elevate her. The fact that he has left her alone long enough to attempt this is unnerving. She takes a deep breath, trying to dislodge the fist that has constricted around her lungs.

No. This is not an attempt. This is her escape.

A sudden prickle of goosebumps on her neck. The feeling of being watched. Nymira takes a shuddering breath, vision suddenly fractured by tears. 

She can hear footsteps. She wants to believe they are her own.

Swallowing a whimper, Nymira treks on. She turns her weary eyes downward, scanning for any grasping roots that may hamper her as she picks up the pace.

The footsteps quicken. She stops abruptly. They stop in turn.

Her tears threaten to spill, face growing hot. She feels as though she is jumping at her own shadow. But is she? It was so easy to leave.

Part of her had been questioning whether this opportunity, the lack of supervision, was a trap from the start. At the time, she had been certain she did not care––she would rather walk into the fire than sit and wait to be consumed.

But now, faced with the prospect of flames, the fear grips her all the same. 

A gust of wind whistles past her ears. Nymira keeps walking.

The sun creeps ever higher, but still, she has not gone far enough. 

Every sound feels like a threat, every creak and bump and crack. He could have heard the window break. He must have heard the window break! She shifts to look over her shoulder, struck by a moment of clarity she fears has come too late.

Has she left a trail?

Nymira’s eyes drift to her bloodied palm. Sucking in a terse and shaky breath, she clenches her fist tighter around the fabric of her skirt.

Just as she manages to convince herself that she has left no trace, something rustles faintly in the brush behind her. Nymira stiffens, holding her breath.

She is met with only daunting silence.

When seconds pass with no apparent threat, she at last relaxes back into herself. In the same instant, she hears it again.

Choking down her panic, the godling spins, hoping to spot whatever innocent animal she prays is making the noise.

Nothing.

Until it sounds again.

Fear mounting, Nymira whirls again, certain now that there is something at her back. The trees lean and loom, closing in around her to grip her heart with terror. Is she not alone?

Is he lurking just behind her?

She swallows a whimper as she shifts again, looking over her shoulder without moving her feet. The noise is quieter then, and her shoulders sag in both relief and embarrassment as the truth reveals itself.

Her tail.

She has been chasing her own tail.

Air fills her lungs more freely, though she is far from at ease. She is not out of the woods yet. In fact, in all her whipping about, Nymira realizes suddenly that she cannot recall which direction she has come from.

Can she remember which way the wind was blowing? How the branches have waved around her?

There must be a solution.

How many times did she spin? Three? Four? Nymira closes her eyes, brow furrowing as she tries to think. The route back to Persep lies before or behind her. Which means the left and right are still safe. 

Resolve steeled, she turns and carries on.

The forest regards her impassively, and the sun drifts higher overhead.

–––

It has been too long. She should have been far enough by now. 

Nymira gazes wearily through the woods, her exhaustion catching up to her. She swallows thickly, mouth dry, and imagines stopping. She pictures herself falling still, dropping to her knees to cower and await whatever fate––rescue or capture––is to come for her. 

Passive, a voice hisses in her mind. 

Inertia carries her forward, keeps her legs moving. Giving up would take more effort.

Too passive to quit.

And too tired to cry.

The early morning mist has cleared now, but Nymira’s surroundings are no less unsettling. Trying to make sense of them is making her head spin.

How much further? Surely she should be out of his bubble by now, shouldn’t she? Nymira rubs her eyes, vision bleary. Though the sounds of the forest still racket around her, she pays them little heed. If there really is something prowling nearby, it is clearly not intent on coming close.

Fear no longer grips her, but fatigue has taken its place.

She doesn’t know how much longer she can walk.

Luckily, she won’t need to wonder for long. Up ahead, the treeline grows sparser, thinning out into a sun-soaked clearing she can only just make out between the branches. 

At once, Nymira finds her second wind. This will be something new, at least. Something different from the monotony of the woods. With any luck, she may have even found its edge.

With hope swelling in her heart, Nymira quickens her pace. She raises an arm to push through the grasping trees, squinting in the sudden light as she breaks into the clearing. 

Before her sits a hive.

Dark. Daunting.

With a shroud of broken glass upon the ground.

Nymira stumbles back a step, dread twisting like a knife in her gut. She clamps a hand over her mouth lest she cry out in dismay, legs and breath both shaking.

When did she get turned around? How did she not notice? 

She grips the front of her dress with one hand, gasping as her mind is flooded with an anguish she is not yet able to process.

She’s gone in a circle.

Twigs snap behind her. Nymira turns just in time to see Persep stepping through the brush, fangs glinting and stitches pulled taut by the relaxed grin that sits upon his face.

Worse. She has been herded in one.

There is one long, tense moment as the two stare at each other, Nymira’s chest heaving and throat tight. Persep withdraws a hand from his pocket, showing off his dampening stone with a taunting wave.

“Don’t feel too bad,” he hums as he returns the object to his pocket. “It was a fine attempt… But I’m afraid I’ve more experience.”

Nymira cannot bring herself to speak.

“I hope you enjoyed your walk,” he continues, eyes gleaming. “Ready to come inside?”

As he steps towards her, she is jarred enough to remember the knife clasped in her hand. She raises it in threat, gaze wild.

“I told you, godling. I only wish to help you. Why pretend you don’t want this?”

“I want nothing you have to offer me,” she shoots back, voice low.

“No? You don’t want to be a god?”

“I do not need you to become who I am. All you can do is hurt me.”

“I am wounded,” he answers lightly, stepping forward once again. 

Nymira holds her ground, blade leveled at Persep and eyes trained just below his own. “Stay away from me.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused, and takes a smaller pace in her direction. She steadies the knife with both hands.

“Stay. Away.”

Persep ignores her threat, raising his own hand in supplication as he moves ever closer. “You’ve had a long morning, Dreamer. Let’s put the toys away.”

Nymira rears back and drives her knife into his palm, a shot of adrenaline bursting through her veins as her captor closes in. He sucks in through his teeth, then withdraws his hand, blade still embedded in his flesh.

She watches in dismay as Persep heedlessly tugs the knife free and slips it in his pocket, not even bothering to check his wound.

“If you’re finished now,” he says flatly, shaking some excess blood from his hand. “I’d like to catch up on my sleep.”

[who0se-bad-idea-was-this]

—Meet the resident messes!

Please bear with any spelling or grammer issues, this has not been proofread. It is in progress and is still missing an OC

if you are a riordanverse blog who has received interaction from here, it is because of a side blog attatched to this one. @tnt-tr1o

-Wraith/OP

notice

Rules

Please, no godmodding or forcing anything

Please be patient, I'm a busy student

No NSFW

Just basic decency, that's all I ask

Open communication. If you don't like anything I'm doing, please tell me and if I don't like anything you do I'll tell you. If you feel like you're bored and don't want to RP I'd feel better of you told me instead of forcing yourself or leaving me on read. I won't get offended and I hope you don't either.

RP

I'm always open to interactions, don't be shy! If you want to have a specific interaction or relationship with my ocs let me know! When it comes to love interests I have some biases towards certain canon characters but it likely will not effect. I'm multi ship (the ships for my muses will most likely be counted as different universes)

Additional Tags

Writing/oneshots(?)

Final lullaby — POV: Brighella/Loki

AU things

(Genshin Impact)

Morgenzon

A fallen kingdom. The nation of Umbro, formerly ruled by Zepar, the god of dreams and nightmares. Inspired by Netherlands.

Umbro

The eight element. It is not of the light realm. A truth lost to time states that during the era of the Dragon Sovereigns a small seed from the abyss slipped into the light realm. A dragon found it and though an unknown method, refined it in a way that it could be wielded the same way as the other seven elements. That dragon would become the first Umbro dragon sovereign. As of post Khaenri'ah-Morgenzon cataclysm, Umbro has faded back into the Abyss.

Ahriman

A once mighty race born of Umbro. They were created by the Umbro Dragon Sovereign. When Celestia took over, they fell apart. Without the Umbro Dragon to give their shadows shape, all Ahriman born afterwards were deformed and horrendous looking in the way only abyssal creatures could be. Their eyes were said to make you relive your worst memories. Even parents could not stand the sight of their own children which led to all Ahriman being abandoned during infancy. As of present day, only two Ahriman remain: Loki/Brighella and Nymira. The most notable Ahriman is Zepar, the former Archon.

(Honkai Star Rail)

Katicans

[I am aware they are cannon but we know next to nothing so my interpretation will be filled with headcannons]

A bloodthirsty tribe of warriors and warlords in Sigonia they value strength above all. They look mostly human with slightly non human characteristics such as fangs. They worship a war like aspect of Gaiathra Triclops.

Morticians

The morticians of Sigonia are an isolated tribe. They live and wander aimlessly through the sands, other tribes tend to avoid them due to their eerieness but no funeral rite is complete without a member from this tribe present. They believe that Gaiathra is the guide and the keeper of the afterlife where souls rest in peace.

You just need to answer the questions I give you, no need to be difficult about it -Wraith/OP

GENSHIN IMPACT

Name?

Veerle… but you already knew that?

Gender & Pronouns

Um, I'm female. And I use she/her

Sexuality?

My sexuality…? Uh… I don't know…

Affiliation?

I don't have a specific affiliation. The Knights and the wolves I suppose. Or really anybody who is my friend.

Vision?

Anemo. I got it when I was six.

VOICE

Melody Muze (English)

TAG

—Reanimated Starlight

APPEARANCE & PERSONALITY TYPE/D&D ALIGNMENT

Veerle had dark skin with silvery white freckles. She had wavy snow-white hair ended choppily just above her shoulders. Her eyes were sea green. Two fluffy wolf ears poked out the top of her head with a matching wolf tail to go with it. Two dark magenta horns that were slightly smaller than her wolf ears rose out of her forehead. She had a large scar going across her face, from just above her left eyebrow to across her face to the lower half of her right cheek. A smaller, thinner scar went across her lips. She wore plain but practical clothes though they were often a little dirty and ragged. Her personality/MBTI type is ISFP and her D&D alignment is neutral good.

ABOUT VEERLE

Brighella:

I ask that you be patient with her, ever since I brought her back as a puppet her emotional functioning is… questionable. She struggles to understand and process emotions, both others and her own, though she does make an effort regardless. Should she come to you for help, I ask you to make an effort to help her understand.

Lena:

She's my sister, that gives her an advantage, makes it easier for me to trust her.

Diederik:

Veerle? She's alive…? But how?

Nymira:

The wolf girl? Brighella once paid me to accompany her on a trip to ensure her safety. She has a good heart but her lack of self awareness is going to get her in trouble someday.

Kito:

She's a bionic puppet. Her father went to great lengths to preserve her consciousness and make her a new body after she died.

Name?

Oh I don't really care what you call me, I've had far too many names. The Wolf is fine, Brighella too. Loki, I reserve for friends and family.

Gender & Pronouns?

Genderfluid. My pronouns usually adhere to my gender but I don't particularly care

Sexuality?

What was that word again… ah yes, Androsexual

Affiliation?

Her majesty The Tsaritsa has my utmost loyalty and devotion. Anybody who takes precedence…? My children I suppose.

Vision?

I don't have one and I prefer to keep it that way. Visions are a form of recognition by Celestia and the last thing I want is to have their gaze on me. The thing around my neck is a counterfeit, I use a cryo delusion. My curse allows me to use it as freely as a vision.

BONUS:

legally adopted children:

Lyney, Lynette, Freminet, Lena, children of the House of the Hearth, Veerle, Diederik/Icarus

unofficially adopted children:

Childe, Scaramouche/Wanderer, Hu Tao, Xiao, Bosacius, Indarias, Bonanus, Menogias, the other Yakshas, Kito, Razor

your ocs can be adopted too! (They probably will be lmao)

APPEARANCE & PERSONALITY TYPE/D&D ALIGNMENT

Loki had androgynous features and short sandy blonde hair that faded into ginger at the ends. They had sandy blonde cat ears and tail. They had tanned, freckled skin. Their eyes were unique. The top half of their right eye was sea green while the bottom half was purple. The top half of their left eye was golden and the bottom half was magenta. Their pupils were in the shape and color of a red x. Two pointed, elf like ears were faintly visible through his hair. He had a scar next to his lips and one going around his throat. The latter he usually keeps hidden. He dressed extravagantly in varying styles though there were usually three constants: His Fatui mask, long mechanical claws attatched to rings and a top hat. His MBTI type is either ENTP or ENFP and his alignment is chaotic neutral.

W.I.P drawing below. Made using a base by @/mellon-soup

VOICE

For male Loki, Camden Sutkowski & for female Loki, Arryn Zech

TAG

—Blinding Farce

ABOUT LOKI

Veerle:

It's… complicated. He's so different from what I remember or was he like this the whole time and i idolized him too much too notice… Still, I know he cares about me very much, I just wish he would be nicer to other people and not just because I asked him to be.

Lena:

I owe Mother everything. Don't tell him I said that, he hates it when I make it sound like I owe him something for adopting me. But I do. He took me in, raised me, cared for me, taught me to fight. I don't care what you think of him, I won't tolerate anybody who speaks bad about him.

Icarus:

Ma? She's very… different now. But I can hardly blame her. It must have been a long five hundred years. I still remember the look on her face as he stood in the ruins… [sigh] she was borderline unresponsive back then.

Nymira:

Ugh… Brighella. He's just an apathetic hedonist with no desire to live. He's so focused on his curse and what he will loose than what he does have now, and that's what makes him so insufferable to me.

Kito:

Loki? Oh he's quite fun to be around and he's respectful of my preference towards neutrality. I think he sees me as one of his children though… Not that I mind

Name?

Lena

Gender & Pronouns?

Female. She/her.

Sexuality?

Demiromantic, I think. Any gender.

Affiliation?

My family always comes first.

Vision?

Electro, it has it's uses.

APPEARANCE & PERSONALITY TYPE/D&D ALIGNMENT

Lena had short, spiky dark magenta hair that framed her face and amethyst-colored eyes. She had fair skin and was lean built but fairly muscled. Her hands were rough with callouses and a variety of scars, small and large decorated her skin. She usually dressed simply and practically in outfits that were both good for fighting and toying with mechanics. Her MBTI type is ISTP and her D&D alignment is chaotic neutral.

VOICE

Molly Zhang

TAG

—Unyielding Lightning

ABOUT LENA

Veerle:

She isn't afraid to speak her mind, that makes it easier for me. She's pleasant enough to me and our other siblings just a little unintentionally insensitive.

Loki:

Lena might have a thorny exterior but she has a good heart deep down. She's loyal, hardworking, efficient and a lovely older sister to her siblings

Icarus:

I met Lena once in the Abyss when she was a child. She was… prickly to say the least. Refused to trust a thing anybody said or did. Last I heard, Skirk took her on as an apprentice.

Nymira:

Rude but smart and honest. Perhaps too honest. We might have gotten along fine if she wasn't such a mama's girl, Brighella isn't all that. Then again she has an odd obsession with getting stronger and picking fights like that weird ginger Harbinger.

Kito:

Met her once when visiting Loki. She was pretty cold. Stopped giving me death glares when Loki vouched for me but she was still fairly distant. She has a talent for making, fixing and breaking mechanics.

Name?

Icarus, at your service… And I mean that metaphorically not literally, I'd rather not work when I can sleep.

Gender & Pronouns?

Male, he/him

Sexuality?

Mmm, I don't really know. I never bothered exploring it too much…

Affiliation?

Is that really important? I mean, I would rather not sour anybody's impressions of me before we even get to know each other!

Really? [Sigh] Fine, I work for the Abyss Order but I swear I am not as diabolical as I may sound.

Vision?

I have no need for one, the Abyss responds to my command. Nor am I too shabby with a sword.

APPEARANCE & PERSONALITY TYPE/D&D ALIGNMENT

Icarus had fair skin. His draconic eyes were a hot pink with draconic slitted pupils. His ears were long and pointed, like an elf. His hair was blonde with magenta ends. Patches of black scales decorated his skin. His clawed hands were black at the ends with dark magenta patterns. His outfit was a mixture of simple and extravagant. His personality/MBTI type is INFJ and his alignment is true neutral.

VOICE

Nicholas Leung

TAG

—Fallen Prince of Night

ABOUT DIEDERIK

Veerle:

That one...I feel like I know him somehow but... I can't really put my finger on it. He's part of the Abyss yet Kaz has a strange liking towards him.

Loki:

Icarus? I suppose that's what he calls himself now. Ofcourse I know him, I raised him. But further information on who he was... I'm afraid I cannot say.

Lena:

I met him once in the Abyss. Looking back, he likely had good intentions but I was too rattled to even consider listening.

Nymira:

Brighella's kid, hm? Don't know him but he's likely just like the rest.

Kito:

He's nice enough. I know I met him a few times as a hatchling but I was too young to remember him.

Name?

Am I being paid for this? No? Ugh, what a waste. I suppose I just won't answer then.

...

Fine it's Nymira

Gender & Pronouns?

My gender fluctuates but stays on the female spectrum. So she or they.

Sexuality?

Lesbian

Affiliation?

Myself. And I suppose whoever pays me, though that's only a temporary thing until the job is done.

Vision?

My eyes, a hydro vision. You should know that I am not as blind as I seem before you do something foolish like attempting to trick me.

APPEARANCE & PERSONALITY TYPE/D&D ALIGNMENT

Nymira was an elegant figure with dark brown skin. She wore her dark hair in a a elaborate crown braid with sharp bangs and a longer braid going down her back. Her eyes were covered with a royal blue blindfold with white patterns and gold embroidery. Her outfits usually followed the colour scheme of her blindfold. She usually has a snake with golden scales on her. Her personality/MBTI type is ESTP and she's chaotic neutral.

VOICE

AmaLee

TAG

—Spider in the Shadows

ABOUT NYMIRA

Veerle:

We travelled together for a short time. She was helpful enough but for some reason I got the sense that she didn't like me all that much

Loki:

When I found out I wasn't the last Ahriman and that I had a sister, I was ecstatic. Ofcourse, my hopes were crushed when I couldn't find her. And then two thousand years later, long after I stopped searching, I did. Ofcourse I didn't account for the fact that she was snarky and a tad hostile at best.

Lena:

Don't know her well, don't care to know her well. She helps the House of Hearth get information from time to time. But she and Mother always end up fighting which raises her price drastically. That's why we usually let Father deal with her. Still, she is a formidable opponent… maybe I should challenge her to duel…

Icarus:

I ran into her once. She is very.... blunt.

Kito:

Nymira seems pretty determined to not get along with me because of my friendship with Loki. I suppose there's just some people you can't please.

Name?

I call myself Kito

Gender & Pronouns?

Male, he/him

Sexuality?

I'm Biseuxal with a preference for males

Affiliation?

Affiliation? Why must everybody have to take sides? Life is short, why waste it arguing, we should live it to the fullest! Though… I do often run errands for the Hexenzirkel. Mostly for my mothers.

Vision?

No vision here, Rhine- er, mother created me with electro inbuilt.

APPEARANCE & PERSONALITY TYPE/D&D ALIGNMENT

Kito had somewhat too pale skin with dark indigo, almost black hair in a slightly tousled style His eyes were a piercing light magenta with draconic slits for pupils. He had slightly pointed ears. He usually donned this appearance as it was more human. His personality/MBTI type is ENTP and his alignment is chaotic/true neutral

VOICE

Howard Wang

TAG

—Subtle Storm

ABOUT KITO

Veerle:

I know him through Klee and Albedo, he's their older brother. But with the way they act, you'd think Albedo was the oldest. Master Jean doesn't allow him to be with Klee without supervision because they blew up a few mountains.

Brighella:

Kito likes staying out of most conflicts and he's firm about it. He has friends nearly everywhere, including in the Fatui. He gets along best with me, Childe and Dottore. You just cannot leave him in the same room with Scaramouche though

Lena:

I don't particularly care for him but if Mother and Ajax like him then I see little reason to mistrust him.

Icarus

Little Kito? I suppose he must be all grown up now, no? How is he?

Nymira:

Met him, don't really care about him. He's Loki's friend and practically penniless.

Name?

Mama said not to talk to strangers… its Nisrine

Gender & Pronouns

Nisrine is girl! And um.. she

Sexuality?

Mama likes kissing girls, Uncles kiss boys. Nisrine does not like kissing.

Affiliation?

Mama!

Vision?

Shiny stone! It's all yellow and pretty like coins

VOICE

Cherami Leigh (Sunako Kirishiki from Shiki, english dub)

TAG

—Phantasmic Doll

APPEARANCE & PERSONALITY TYPE/D&D ALIGNMENT

Nisrine looks like a young girl of about ten. She has dark skin and rather messily cut choppy black hair. You can see puppet joints all over her body. Her eyes are usually shut, but when open they are an eerie black with a tiny mechanical magenta light as a pupil. She has serrated shark like teeth. There are small, fluffy white wings on her back. Nirsine usually carries around a small grey doll of a cat. Her personality/MBTI type is ENFP and her D&D alignment is chaotic neutral. (Picture below, made using a picrew. It's missing her puppet joints)

ABOUT NISRINE

Veerle:

She looks harmless but she really isn't. I don't mean to speak bad about her, she's a relatively good kid just… odd.

Loki:

Ah, my sister's little Sundew. She's adorable! But ah… don't get too close. She tends to… bite, let's say.

Lena:

Oh her. I'm frankly very curious about how her mechanics work and how they held up so long but I'm afraid I'm not allowed to examine her.

Icarus:

I have yet to meet the little one but she seems interesting indeed.

Nymira:

No matter what that child says, I am not her mother! I don't know she seems to think-

Yes you can go play outside Nisrine.

Anyway- Not on the road Nisrine!

Kito:

She's rather sweet once you get past her murderous tendencies, perhaps I should introduce her to Klee, I'm sure she would get along with my little sister.

HONKAI STAR RAIL

Name?

Sabre. No you are not getting my real one.

Gender & Pronouns

Female, she/her

Sexuality?

I never gave it much thought, I suppose men and women are both attractive though

Affiliation?

The Nameless.

Path?

The Trailblaze, obviously [In-game path: Destruction]

VOICE

Skirk from Genshin Impact (not sure who the VA is)

TAG

—Tenacious Bloodshed

APPEARANCE & PERSONALITY TYPE/D&D ALIGNMENT

Sabre had dark skin and black hair that was cut in choppy bangs. She was tall and muscled. Her sightless eyes were usually covered by glasses.

POWERS

Born into a tribe who valued strength above all, Sabre was blessed by Gaiathra Triclops accordingly. Though born blind, in battle or in situations were Sabre's adrenaline kicked in, she developed a sort of sixth sense.

Name?

Corbin- I know what Kafka and Wolfie say but it's Corbin not Corvid

Gender & Pronouns

Demi boy, he/they

Sexuality?

Pansexual

Affiliation?

The Stellaron Hunters. If the IPC asks... no you didn't see me

Path?

I wouldn't say I belong to any path seeing as I don't worship any Aeons. [In-game path: Remembrance]

VOICE

Griffin Burns

TAG

—Spirit Speaker

APPEARANCE & PERSONALITY TYPE/D&D ALIGNMENT

Corbin has tanned skin and blonde hair. He might have been considered attractive were it not for the way his skin clung to his bones, he looked almost half dead already. His eyes were an uncanny shade of bright red and his pupils resembled wilted flower petals. His eerie appearance was due to his powers which deeply rooted in the spirit world.

POWERS

Belonging to the tribe of morticians, he was blessed by Gaiathra Triclops accordingly. He could see and talk to restless spirits that have yet to pass on and find peace. He could even command them (or rather, their corpses) for a time as long as they are freshly dead. If he used too much of his power he ended up in a state where the lines between the living world and limbo are blurred and he is walking both simultaneously. After being experimented on by a formerly secret society, Corbin has various genetic enhancements that make him suitable to be a weapon. Should one make skin to skin contact with him, years of their life would be taken away to add to his.

[sasster]

Cylion why is it that there aren't writing implements in Nymiras room?

"The Dreamer fancies Herself more of a reader than a writer."

[dearchickadee]

↳ * PROFILES * ༉‧₊˚✧

lark (shepherds of haven)

larken (our life: now and forever)

↳ * WRITING * ༉‧₊˚✧

dead woman walking

↳ * MOODBOARDS * ༉‧₊˚✧

༻✧ original

desdemona

archibald

verne

lydia

lavinia

༻✧ fandom

lark (shepards of haven)

chou (twisted wonderland)

larken (our life: now and forever)

evelyn (genshin impact)

seraphina (genshin impact)

tiffin (touchstarved)

nymira (obey me)

[solomonish]

Nymira - The Fifteenth Dateable

So a little bit ago I rb'd this lovely art of Nymira, my OC, but I didn't really make any information about her available. So, if you're curious, here's a background and story about Nymira! She's a succubus who always seems to keep to herself, the kind of person to help you when you're crying in the bathroom at a party, the ever-diligent keeper of R.A.D. secrets. I write her as if she were a dateable (since I made her at a time when there was no female dateable) so if that isn't your jam you don't have to read this!! (And if my math ever doesn't add up on how many suitors there are, it's probably because I'm either not including Luke (title) or I am (one of the headers).

Reader is referred to with you pronouns BUT there are some gendered situations such as - going into the bathroom Nymira (she/her) would use (but maybe there are universal bathrooms), wearing makeup, carrying a bag.

Background

Nymira is a creature of lust. She was created from it, not forced into it through some over-complicated system based on a past life (which was guided from jumbled morals from the get go). Her pulse thrums like the heavy bass in The Fall, and her blood may as well be the same atmospheric neon that paints those walls. Like all lust demons, she is picture-perfect. Well manicured, just the right amount of confidence, with a strange affinity towards pink and red…

Open-minded, lively, and a little lax with the rules, Nymira can bring a party anywhere (and can go to any party on the shortest notice.) Life is a competition, and she is among those on top. If there is anything she lacks (though you’d be hard-pressed to list any item in that department), she can find a few connections that give her what she needs.

Oh, don’t look so scandalized. It’s an equal exchange - after all, who doesn’t want someone like her?

Role at R.A.D.

Nymira enjoys life in the top rungs of the social ladder. Most creatures of lust do, aided by their natural charm and ease in social situations. She fits in any crowd easily, so long as they can fit with her caliber. Her ruling avatar, Asmo, also tends to get friendly with those stemming from his lust, which instantly bolsters her status. Those more common demons know her name, sometimes watching after her in the hallway with more than a few whispers.

Ask any other succubi and incubi, however, and they won’t have much to say. What they know is mostly good - although creatures of lust do love to gossip - but you’ll find she doesn’t have many deep connections within the circles she “belongs.” They’ll call her quiet, determining she’s better used as filler for a party rather than the vitality.

Mention this to her? She’ll merely laugh, a sound that might leave you hypnotized, and murmur an excuse or two. Those succubi and incubi who would “want to be her friend” would stab her in the back for a popularity contest the moment they could, and she’s prepared to do the same. Besides, why would she want the party to be unable to continue without her when she was hoping to invite you to a part of her own, just the two of you ;)

Meeting MC

She was at The Fall when it happened.

Despite being deemed one of the quieter and more reserved lust demons, Nymira really isn’t. She doesn’t need to step out of a party for a breather. Her makeup, however, is not always immune to the wear and tear of a good night of clubbing. Though the bathrooms at The Fall are poorly lit, she has become a master of reapplying and touching up bathed in a pinkish-red glow, making sure it will look good in any lighting. Perhaps this is part of the reason she has such a mysterious reputation - she’ll often get caught up for an hour helping other demons fix their looks when they’re unaccustomed to the lighting.

She was just finishing applying lipstick to a newer succubus' lips when her senses went on high alert. A human was nearby, pulse pounding, face flushed, and blood-alcohol content definitely not at zero. Diavolo’s rules made it impossible for her to pounce, but laws couldn’t counteract her natural instincts honing in on the sensation. Their presence was magnetizing, exciting. She gave the other succubus a pat on the shoulder and a sharp smile. Despite her reputation, she was still quite powerful, enough to get her way with the younger demons without a problem.

The human was clutching the edge of the sink, taking deep breaths and seemingly caught in their own world. She hovered just out of view, watching them cautiously. She didn’t want to scare them - that didn’t seem like the right decision at all. So she waited until their breathing evened out, then walked into view in the mirror. Their red-rimmed eyes met hers, and she realized they had been crying.

Without a word, Nymira approached them and started dabbing at their eyes, using a tissue she had on her rather than the rough paper products in the bathroom. She could feel the human’s discomfort - though it wasn’t smart to let a random demon cup their face, at least they seemed aware of that - and she began murmuring nothings, small tidbits of gossip she heard throughout the night and the atrocious dress she saw someone wearing. Soon, the human seemed to relax a bit, and even allowed her to touch up any makeup they had been wearing.

“You’re the exchange student, right?” Nymira hummed. They waited until she was done applying their lipstick to answer.

“Yes,” they answered, flushing under Nymira’s gaze as she watched them press their lips together, as if testing her application skills. “MC.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

“Good things?” They looked awfully adorable when they were apprehensive.

“I believe the Lords would eliminate anyone who dared utter anything unsavory.”

“Yeah,” MC agreed, laughing a bitter laugh as their eyes teared up again. “They seem to be...all over anything that involves me.”

Nymira packed the makeup back into MCs little bag and gave it to them. They stared at it for a moment before asking, “Why did you help me?”

Unable to resist the urge, Nymira cupped their face again and felt it warm beneath her skin as she wiped away a single tear. “Because I simply hate to watch a pretty thing cry.”

Relationship With Asmo

Nymira and Asmo, to outsiders, are very similar. Both are cheery, affectionate, confident - the hallmarks of a proper lust demon, to be sure. In fact, Asmo often finds himself talking to Nymira specifically, and always leaves conversations with a smile on his face. They must be good friends, others rationalize. Perhaps Nymira is so quiet because she feels she’s above others, having a connection with THE Avatar of Lust.

That….couldn’t be further from the truth. These conversations always involve snide banter, normally bringing up rumors or embarrassing moments the other happened to notice over the weekend. No explicit insults are shared - they seem to be so used to getting on the other’s nerves in a secret code of sorts. They know that they are similar, dreadfully so, and make it a point to be as different as they willingly can.

This proves difficult when they both have the same tastes. They’ll meet eyes among the aisles of Majolish and engage in a secret battle to grab the cutest items first. Sometimes they don’t even purchase the items they like, knowing the other could buy it too. They’ll often post dressing room pictures, hoping to be the first one to post. If Asmo reviews a certain makeup line, Nymira avoids it like the plague. Someone mentions she’s wearing a perfume that smells like what Asmo was wearing, and Nymira frowns the rest of the day before dumping the bottle out when she gets home. Asmo will show up to school with a bold makeup look he spent hours planning, only to be told it looks like the tutorial Nymira posted on Devilgram the other day. He immediately wipes it off in the bathroom and puts on a quick 3-minute look, claiming he just wanted to “go natural” for the day.

If you ever see him in the garden of the House of Lamentation, a fearsome scowl etched across his features as he stares at a burning pile of clothes he just bought, don’t intervene lest you end up in the fire, too. Feign your surprise when rumors of a fire in the courtyard of Nymira’s dorm surface the next day at school.

Falling in Love With MC

MC never got much of a chance to talk to her - not until they were choosing classes for the next semester and had no idea what most of them were. When asking around about Starspeak, they were instantly directed to Nymira, and when they looked at her with such interested, innocent eyes….how could she resist teasing them a bit?

She insisted they help her finish her midterm project, claiming that Starspeak needed to be experienced and not just known. They picked up faster than she could ever think, even if they were still at a beginner’s level. Soon they were asking her good questions, showing interest in her passion...and she began to anticipate the nights in the library, or the old classrooms nobody but her and her professors (and now, MC) knew about.

When Nymira turned in her project, she asked MC what they thought. Whether they decided to take the class or not, she felt her heart stop at what they said about her.

“I think you shine brightest when you’re talking about your passions. You really belong here, Nymira.”

Passions

Most creatures of lust wind up in the limelight: internet influencers, movie stars, singers, you name it. Even those that wind up as something quieter, like authors, wind up in the public eye with their groundbreaking (and raunchy!!) fiction novels. The Devildom is a free place, but sometimes it seems expectations are as binding as any rigid system might be.

Nymira has no interest in the blinding lights, nor does she wish to pursue acting, singing, or any kind of art. Her heart lies with research, though research about what is a tale she won’t tell (yet). All anybody knows is that she excels in her starspeak classes, is the most efficient at charging magical objects with moonwater, and never has her homework started until after the evening’s parties. Yet, the one time Belphegor managed to speak to her about stars, she seemed utterly disinterested in astronomy. Nobody knows what she wants to do...and beyond a vague curiosity, nobody cares.

You’d be right if you guessed her interest lies in Starspeak. Not many know about what it entails, as anything above Starspeak Composition is an elective class and almost obsolete in terms of practical jobs. The most advanced classes haven’t seen students in years, aside from Nymira herself. But she knows - knows that the stars in the Devildom are friends, that they have personalities and stories and secrets. They only reveal themselves to those who they deem trustworthy, and Nymira is one of a few who haven’t been entirely swept away by the partying lifestyle. Nymira wants to learn to speak to the stars, to become their friend as the moon is, a silent observer and keeper amongst a sea of chatterboxes. Perhaps they hold the truest form of history, or political scandals no common demon should know. Maybe they spread gossip about each other, their catfights hidden on the cloudiest nights. Nymira doesn’t know, but she will. And once she gets that information, if ever, she will never betray the stars if they ask her not to.

(starspeak insp)

Being 1 of 12 (now 16)

Usually, Nymira can have anybody she wants and knows exactly how to get them. With MC, however….things get complicated.

For one, they seem immune not only to Asmo’s charms, but to everybody’s. For two, they have a slew of the hottest and most eligible bachelors that have ever stepped foot in the devildom surrounding them on all sides at all times. The residents of Purgatory Hall think they don’t stand a chance? How do they think she feels?

For the first time in her existence, Nymira is a nobody. She has no footing to help her, no magic to get her way, and she does not know how to handle it. It looks like she handles it well, as put-together as always. But others, those slightly more familiar with her, notice the longing glances and the obvious pining, and know she is absolutely hopeless.

Nymira fell in love just by someone being a simple reprieve for her. All she can do is hope MC can fall in love with the same, and that they don’t notice how she holds them a little tighter than is normal.

Overview

Nymira doesn’t shy away from the party life. Despite her interests, she really is quite the introvert. But she has always felt disconnected from her life, caught up in the sky or maintaining a distance or whatever. Nobody grounds her the way MC does, but she knows better than anyone that life can’t always go her way and MC isn’t something she can just claim as hers. She may not be a Lord or a future Demon King, not an angel or a butler or a crazy powerful sorcerer. But she can offer you a quiet life away from the chaos of the upper echelons of society, a place where it can be just you and her. You can practice your magic and surpass that dumb sorcerer, she can listen to the stars and whisper in your ear what they tell her, and she’ll take you into town any time you like. All you have to do is give her a chance. Will you take it?

[roetrolls]

Conversion

Persep had to give credit where it was due–– Nymira had yet to cry over her current predicament. Even as he marched her past his dolls’ watchful eyes and towards the room that would confine her, she kept her chin raised and her upper lip stiff.

She made a sound when she saw the bedroom, something choked and dismayed that tugged a satisfied smile to Persep’s lips. Still, she shed no tears, eyes fluttering closed as if she could dream herself back to safety. Her frame shook with each deep, shuddering breath she forced through her nose, hands clenched at her sides to hide their tremoring.

Purple light faded from the soft blue walls as Persep finally released his hold on her, watching from the doorway with a near-giddy anticipation. He did love an audience.

“You had. To make this,” she muttered, stilted speech far steadier than he expected from the shivers that wracked her to her skull. If he had to wager a guess she was shaking more from tension than fright, muscles bunched in such intense dread that it left her buzzing.

He drummed a hand on the doorframe, impressed and, more importantly, excited by her fortitude.

“Kind of me, no?"

“Why. Did you make this?”

“I want you to be comfortable,” he replied glibly.

“This…” Nymira started, voice so level as to sound unnatural. “This is not. The effort. Of someone seeking… a few more trinkets.”

Persep’s grin turned wolfish.

“You really are more clever than your brothers gave you credit for.”

Finally, the godling tore her gaze from the decor and turned to face him fully, dread heavy on her delicate features.

“What do you want from me?”

“Oh, goddess,” Persep laid a hand over his heart. “I want this for you.”

“Please.” She pressed, voice at last breaking slightly. “Why?”

The reaper angled his head, eyes twinkling with a joy he made no attempt to hide. “You’re right, Dreamer. A partnership like this should begin with transparency.”

He took a step into the room. She took one back.

“You’re on the cusp of becoming, little goddess,” Persep closed in on her, watching Nymira’s eyes widen like a cornered animal. He lingered after each encroaching step, letting her marinate in the apprehension with a predatory delight.

Once there remained no distance between them, Persep dropped to a knee, bringing their faces level and trapping her hand in his.

“And I cannot wait to push you off the ledge.”

She stared at him, bewildered, and fought with increasing distress to remove her hand from his. Persep only held her tighter.

“I do not intend to spend my immortality neutered,” he said, smile sharp and dangerous. “But I am picky with my gods. I will not be puppeteered again.”

Nymira could only shake her head, breath catching in her throat. Persep squeezed until her skin was white enough to hide the natural spots that marked it, and a pained whimper escaped her lips.

“We are going to elevate you, Dreamer. And I will ride your coattails as far as they can take me.”

Tears welled in the godling’s eyes, though she continued to hold them in until at last Persep released her hand and stood. He looked down at his own palm, flexing it slightly.

He’d know soon just how mortal she still was.

[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.”

[roetrolls]

Squabble

It’s Nymira’s second time bursting into her brothers’ kitchen in twice as many days, but tonight she is not here for comfort. The godling is stiff when she enters, hands wrapped so tightly around the book she carries with her that it sends tremors through her limbs.

“You stole her arm.”

Cylion looks up and furrows his brow, his face the perfect picture of innocence. 

“What?”

“Marrie’s arm. Why did you take it?”

He rises to his feet to approach her, letting his expression morph into concern. “This again? Marrie’s fine, Mira. It was a dream.”

She squares her jaw, eyes widening in indignation, and Cylion must beat back his irritation.

“Mira,” he tries again, maintaining his patience with practiced ease, “you’re confused.”

“You… You’re lying,” she accuses him with a shaking voice, the strength of the statement superseded by her own disbelief. “Why are you lying?”

“Did you just wake up? Are you feeling alright?” He reaches out to lay a hand on her forehead, but is blocked when Nymira flings open the book and turns it around to thrust the pages in his face.

M A R R I E.

The doll’s name is scrawled across the journal in thick and shaky script, the paper warped by tear stains and blood.

Cylion freezes like a deer in headlights, mouth falling open without an excuse to stand on. He needs to rectify this, now, but the only thought rattling around his head coherent enough to verbalize is…

“Where did you get that?”

The question, quiet and tense, serves only to fuel her anger.

“She gave it to me. For my pens.” Inky tears begin to well in the godling’s eyes. “You hid my pens.”

“Mira–” Cylion tries, fighting to keep his voice level. He can fix this. He just needs to think.

“Y-You lied,” she chokes again, breath becoming rapid. “You lied to me.”

The prophet’s head pulses with the feeling of phantom claws around his skull, their father’s warning suddenly feeling far more pressing.

This wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for Favion. And now Cylion is going to be blamed for failing to clean up his messes. His entire life given to their father, to her, to this thankless fucking job, all for a puppet to be his undoing.

Were this happening to anyone else, he’d call it comical.

His sister is bordering on hysterics, shoulders shaking with stress and rage, and her gaze is almost pleading. What she wouldn’t give to be wrong right now.

“You’re a liar.”

His eyes bore into hers. She swallows a stormy sob and squeezes the journal, her lifeline, to her chest.

“You’re a liar!” the mutant cries, voice breaking with the pressure.

Cylion opens his mouth, preparing to deny, minimize, console. Then the frustration swells in his chest like a wave, and he feels his mouth break into a nearly manic grin. 

“Yeah? Welcome to Alternia.”

The anger vanishes from her face, overtaken by confusion, and whatever confidence she had been counting on for this confrontation goes with it. He takes a heavy step forward and unfolds his wings, flaring them out behind him to enlarge his frame.

“What are you going to do about it, Mira?” he sneers as she stumbles back, intimidated.

Before he can make use of the change in her demeanor, though, she plants her feet and fans her tail in a threat display of her own, matching his size. “I… I’m going to tell Father.”

Cylion clenches his jaw until something pops, annoyance quickly giving way to fury.

It was never supposed to be like this. She was never supposed to have this kind of power over him. How is it fair, that she can make a threat this effective? Why does she get to turn his own ancestor against him?

“Did you already forget you’re mad at him, then?” Cylion advances another step, looming over his sister with a dark, brooding look behind his eye.

“Father didn’t lie to me!” she howls, striking at his chest with an open palm. 

He catches her wrist and snarls, nostrils flaring. “Do not. Hit me.”

Nymira’s face falls. Whatever expression Cylion is wearing, it’s finally enough to rattle her. She tries to pull her arm away, but he holds firm, clawed fingers curling tighter around her skin.

“Cylion,” she whimpers, voice suddenly very small. “You’re scaring me.”

“Good.”

Her breath catches in her throat and she jerks her arm again, still to no avail. “I’m going to tell Father you’re scaring me!”

A low growl rattles in Cylion’s throat, and without a word, he tugs his sister into the hall, dragging her towards her room. He ignores her as she beats her free hand against his arm and shoulder, sobbing at the consequences of her own petty threats.

“Stop it! I-I’ll get Somnia!”

He lets out a cold, humorless laugh. “You think Somnia listens to you?”

At the door to her bedroom, he releases her wrist and storms inside, tuning out the godling’s panicked questions and frantic pleas as he throws open her desk drawer and scatters their contents to the wind.

Before long, he finds what he’s looking for, turning around to show her the shiny blue doll thrashing uselessly in his fist.

“Little Friend!” she wails, stumbling forward and swiping at Cylion’s hands. He raises the thing above his head, out of her reach, and glowers down at her. “Put him down!”

“Father stays out of this,” Cylion warns her, shoving past his sister to return to his own room with the toy still wriggling in his palm.

[roetrolls]

Desperate Measures

A bad dream will not be hard to come by in this place. Dread poisons every corner of the dingy apartment, as heavy and saturated as the cloying scent of vanilla that seems almost to seep from the walls. Both cling to Nymira like a veil, constricting around her with each breath she takes, and she knows before her head hits the pillow that this sleep will not be a restful one.

How could it be? Visions of a tight and hungry smile flash behind her lidded eyes, glinting fangs only growing sharper each time she expels them from her thoughts. She can almost feel his cold mirth washing over her, ebbing like a wave that threatens to drag her out to sea. He is a demon far easier to vanquish in her own domain. A flash of her tail, a moment’s shelter for whatever sorry soul she visits, and peace is restored.

If only it were so simple here.

She wants to go home. She wants to make up with Cylion and sit with her father and push this dreadful week into the depths of her subconscious where it belongs. 

She wants someone to save her.

And as always, that’s what does it.

Nymira grasps at Cylion’s dream with practiced, instinctual ease, warping it around her like a scattered beam of light as she-- Cylion’s dream? No. Cylion doesn’t dream. 

What is this?

It is a dream. Of that much she is certain. She feels aware, lucid, in a way that is at once both completely alien and utterly correct, as natural as taking breath into her lungs. A dream. She has never felt more awake.

But where is she? A look around gives little answer. She stands at a cliffside, a deep black sea lapping at the sands beneath her feet, but details are sparse. It feels almost unfinished, as if she has wandered onto the very edge of this reality. Above her, atop the craggy outcropping, a more tangible hive sits perched and overlooking the shoreline, a dreadful, icy cold creeping out from its looming silhouette.

“Back again? You’re starting to look desperate, my friend.”

Nymira’s veins turn to ice, Persep’s dulcet words filling her head with such proximity that she almost feels as though she is speaking them herself. She whips her head around, fear gripping at her lungs, when another voice rings through her skull just the same.

“You can’t have expected to be left completely unsupervised with her,” comes her brother’s terse reply.

The godling tenses. She did find Cylion.

Visiting her captor.

Did she do this? Bring them together somehow, through all her drifting thoughts of rescue? Surely that can’t be. 

Again. As the word finally registers, Nymira finds a deep, gnawing pit expanding in her stomach. Back again. 

“You’re not here to grant me a few days more, then?” Persep asks, voice light. “Pity. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, after all.” 

“Don’t push your luck,” Cylion growls.

Nymira’s heart swells, the growing void in her gut quickly replaced with its light. He knows. He’s been here already, of course he has, to demand her release. Even at rest, he is looking for her. 

Hope soaring, she gathers her skirt into her hands and scans the beach for a way up, certain the men must be conversing in the hive overhead. Cylion’s name rises to her lips, she is about to cry for him when he speaks again.

“I gave you four. That was more than generous.”

The call dies in her throat.

“Worth a try.”

Whatever Cylion says next, Nymira struggles to hear it, his voice drowned out by the ringing that suddenly fills her ears. Anguish expands to cover her like a thick and rolling fog, choking out what little comfort she has found and curling like a plume of smoke into her lungs.

She wakes up gasping for breath, hands clutching at her chest and throat as if to claw away the pain, and a horrified whine falls uselessly from her lips. 

Back again.

She has always heard of hearts being shattered. It’s such a common turn of phrase. Common enough to dilute the true weight of its violent imagery, to cover it in a veneer of mundanity thick enough to mask its gut-wrenching reality.

I gave you four.

To call Nymira’s heart shattered would not do it justice. Pain radiates from her chest and digs into her core, coursing through her veins like an army of glass shards. 

Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe she didn’t reach him at all! Yes, maybe it was truly just a dream, a manifestation of her own worst fears, concocted by her fearful mind and Persep’s suffocating apartment.

Cylion would not put her in danger.

He would not give her away.

Just like he wouldn’t lie to you, right?

A wave of vertigo washes over her as the Dreamer pulls herself from the sofa and staggers towards the bedroom, stomach sloshing angrily all the while. Head swimming with nausea, she braces herself against the wall and sucks in a deep breath, only to gag at the acrid taste of vanilla that hits her throat. 

She stays like that a moment, head hanging low and shoulders shaking, before at last she straightens and throws open the door to where her abductor sleeps, hands rising to grip the frame.

Before she even has chance to speak, Persep begins to stir, responding to her intrusion with more alertness than he has any right to at this hour of the day. He sits up and turns his gaze to her with an eager curiosity.

“You have two days,” Nymira announces from the threshold, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice.

“Hm?” 

“Cylion gave you four,” she warbles, vision fractured by the tears that rush to fill her eyes. “And it’s been two. Y-You… You have two left.”

Persep regards her silently as he processes her words. Finally, his lips part into a grin. “Eavesdropper.”

She gulps down a whimper, shoulders buckling slightly. Any hope that the dream was a fabrication of her own design diminishes to nothing.

“You have to let me go.”

“Mhm.”

“So I… I have no reason to comply with you. I will go home whether I help you or not.”

His grin widens. “But?”

Nymira swallows thickly, shaken further by how quickly he has read her intentions. Though she cannot seem to quell her trembling under the weight of her recent discovery, she forces her back straight and raises her chin, summoning as much confidence as she can muster.

“I want to know… Everything. What you’ve learned about my abilities. How you are manipulating them. And…” She pauses, taking another breath to steel her quaking nerves. “You’re going to teach me.”

Persep hums in response, obviously amused by her attempts at conviction. “Am I?”

“You’ll get what you want. I’ll make it for you.”

She did not think his smile could get wider. Brandishing the same shining white fangs she has so come to loathe during her stay, the purpleblood rises to his feet and strides towards her, spindly hand outstretched and waiting. 

“Very well, Dreamer,” Persep coos as she sets her palm in his. “You have yourself a deal.”

[roetrolls]

Candy and Crocuses

“Cotton candy. A big, big pile of cotton candy. The blue and pink kind.”

Asleep but not deeply, Nymira’s ear twitches in response to her brother’s whispers, held aloft between his thumb and forefinger as he tries desperately to drill the thought into her subconscious.

“Cotton candy,” Somnia whispers again, “just a big huge mountain of cotton candy.”

“I’ll give you an easy one, Dreamer. You’ve done it before.”

Her ear twitches again, this time as if to flick away the venomous honey that drips from the hypnotic voice above her. She feels a vague sense of movement, not her own, and the image of a vulture drifts to mind. She is used to prayer.

She feels like prey.

“Cotton candy! Really, really sweet. Lots and lots of cotton candy.”

“A crocus.”

“Cotton candy!”

“Six petals, pointed up.”

“All stringy and soft and fluffy.”

“Purple. Yellow center.”

“Pink and blue!”

“Picture a crocus.”

Nymira opens her eyes to find Somnia staring at her, black voids shining expectantly. Blinking off her sleep, she turns a droopy gaze to her hands, staring curiously at her tiny palms and the short, stubby fingers that curl towards them.

“Did it work?” he asks excitedly. “Did you see a crocus?”

Confusion muddles the godling’s features. She raises her head to look once more at her brother’s eager face and the purple flower that adorns it, brilliant color shimmering faintly in the low light of her bedroom.

“Cro…cus?” She mumbles softly, the word oddly intrusive on her tongue. 

“Six petals,” he reminds her, “pink and blue.”

Her attention drifts back to her hands, cupped gently around the flower she has summoned. Its golden center stares back, reaching out as if to touch her.

“Yes!” Somnia shouts, laughter bubbling from his chest. He slips his hands beneath her arms and pulls her out of bed, swinging the young goddess in a circle before hefting both of them into the small reading nook set into her bedroom wall. 

She stares at his face, at the petals where his eyes should be, and struggles to make sense of him.

Ignorant to her befuddlement, her brother plucks the flower from her palms and splits it in two, pausing to compare the size of the pieces before holding the smaller of them out to her.

“‘Cause you’re littler,” he explains as she takes her share.

“For Cy?”

He frowns. “No, just for us. He can have some next time, okay?”

“Not sharing?”

“This one’s special for us. We’ll share next time.”

“This time just Poppy?”

“Both of us! We’ll try it on three. Do you wanna count to three with me?”

Nymira flexes one small hand, fingers splayed awkwardly with muscles she is still learning to use. She can count to three. She’s good at counting.

“Six petals. Ready? One, two…”

“What is that?”

A sharp voice jolts Nymira to her senses, eyes snapping open with a start. Persep looms over her with a frigid scowl, his shoulders tight with annoyance. The godling furrows her brow, too disoriented to be intimidated, and turns her gaze to the wispy bundle in her hands.

“It’s…cotton candy.” 

“Cotton candy,” the purpleblood echoes, lips contorting into a snarl.

“Somnia likes it.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Nymira blinks softly, vision still trained on her palms. With two slender fingers, she lifts the morsel and turns it in front of her face, expression somewhat distant. Finally, she turns her attention back to Persep and holds it out, eyes large and innocent.

“Would you like some?”

[roetrolls]

Damage Control II

(Previous!)

Cylion is still sitting in a daze when Nymira reaches his room, her sudden awakening leaving his own consciousness to snap back into place like a spring-loaded rubber band. He can almost envision a cartoonish halo of stars circling his head, the static in his skull akin to stinging.

It’s not as if he wasn’t expecting this, though. She needed a scare––a proper scare. He knew what that meant when he was crafting it. The odds that she even notices the state he’s in are next to none, especially having just woken up herself.

The door flies open more dramatically than usual, clearly driven more by frantic terror than Nymira’s typical childish distress. She stumbles in, face wash with tears, and he nearly finds himself distracted by the inky rivulets running down her cheeks. They pour out of her at a hurricane’s velocity, each drop a swirling dance of color in the way they refract the light.

“Cylion!” She blubbers, choking on her own sobs. “Father– I-I saw Father–”

His heart twinges at the anguish in her voice, and he finds himself once again wishing that his sister were a less stubborn sort. He would have much preferred it never come to this.

Even in his stupor, Cylion wastes no time in opening his arms to her. Nymira falls into them just as quickly.

With a gentle shush, the prophet smoothes his goddess’ hair and hugs her to his chest, holding firm even as he feels her shoulders wrack with sobs. He angles his head to press a kiss to her hairline, again petting the younger troll with one steady hand.

She always looks so tiny from this angle.

“I-I couldn’t find anyone,” she hiccups, gripping him as if terrified he will vanish into smoke. “I couldn’t find you and then–”

“It’s alright, Mira. I’m here.”

A pitiable sob draws itself from her throat, and Cylion can feel cool tears soaking through his shirt.

“Take your time,” he soothes her, “we’ll decipher it once you’re ready.”

She acknowledges him with a feeble nod against his chest, weary hands still clutching the yellowblood with all the strength they can muster. He bundles her further into his arms and rises from the kitchen island, tension melting from his shoulders as he corrales her toward his bedroom.

As they pass Somnia’s door, he taps his foot two times against the wood.

––––––

Somnia never bothered to ask what Cylion had planned for their sister that morning, but after hearing her reaction to it, he figures it must have been a doozy. One might even suggest that Cylion took it farther than he had to, but hey, who is he to question the master?

His biggest gripe, really, is just that he’s been forced out of bed for this mess.

He scratches idly at his ear as he steps into Nymira’s room, lips screwed together in thought. If he were a severed arm, where would he be?

Before he can lose himself to the thought fully, Somnia’s attention is captured by the faint scraping of metal, a grating screech that sounds in short, choppy bursts from across the room.

Nymira’s curtain inches open, seemingly on its own, and a thin strip of sunlight dips inside to cleave the room in two.

There’s a pause, then another scrape, and the beam widens ever so slightly.

Somnia can’t help but grin.

With all the confidence of a playground bully, the goldblood strides to the window and thrusts a hand towards the sill, fist closing tightly around smooth, sun-soaked wood. He can feel the doll’s joints tighten in his grip, a charming mimicry of tensing muscles as response to his intrusion.

It twists in his hand, little legs kicking fruitlessly and arms pinned at its sides, and he gives it a small shake as he draws it into view.

“That could have been smart,” he admits, patting its head with his thumb. “Shame you didn’t start sooner.”

Little Friend glares up at him, painted face displaying a rather impressive amount of vitriol. Amusing. On any other night, he might have been inclined to take a break and bother it a while.

With how stressed Cylion has been, though, that kind of delay seems likely to give the poor man an aneurysm. 

“You can go back once I’m finished here,” Somnia assures the doll before shoving it headfirst into his pocket. It thrashes, fighting to turn itself upright, but he pushes it deeper before it can gain much leverage.

Satisfied that the thing won’t be climbing out any time soon, he laces his fingers to stretch his arms in front of him and sweeps his gaze around the room, thoughts drifting back to the topic at hand. That being, of course, Marrie’s hand.

He checks the reasonable places first––desk, bookshelf, reading nook––but to no avail. The closet and dresser prove similarly useless. When it finally hits him, he feels more than a bit ridiculous.

Where else would Nymira bring something she was trying to safeguard?

It takes some patting down to find it in her bed, tangled up in the mass of pillowy blankets she burrows into each morning, but he knows he’s guessed correctly when his palm hits something solid.

He’s struck with the realization that his sister has more than likely been sleeping with this thing, and Somnia’s face contorts in disgust. Sure, it’s made of wood, but it’s still a bit creepy, isn’t it? He pictures her clutching it to her chest like some kind of demented teddy bear, a visual that is, for once, too grim to be hilarious.

For a brief moment, he allows himself to pity her. He stares at the ring still sitting on Marrie’s finger, a knot forming in his stomach. Nymira made that, didn’t she? She’d shown it off to him when she did, buzzing excitedly about the opportunity to give her friend a gift.

Would it ruin Cylion’s plans to let her keep it?

Somnia chews his lip, eyes still locked on the trinket. This doesn’t seem like the type of decision he should be making.

But with circumstances being what they are… who else can?

After some extended deliberation, he pulls Little Friend from his pocket and drops it on the desk. The doll, disoriented at first, takes a moment to clamber to its feet before turning back to resume its glaring.

Somnia holds up the ring. “Where would Mira lose something like this?”

A look of confusion crosses over Little Friend’s face, and he responds by shoving the object into its chest, knocking the doll over in the process.

“She made it for Marrie. She never gave it to her. Where did she lose it?”

It looks dumbfounded by the question, dotted eyes shifting back and forth as it searches Somnia’s expression. Then, it raises an arm and points toward her bed, little hand angled at the floor.

“Under the bed?”

It nods.

“That’ll work.”

Finished with the doll, Somnia flicks Little Friend to send it spinning halfway across the desk, whatever brief sincerity he had donned morphing right back into his usual satisfied smirk. 

Genuine care sufficiently stifled, he sets the ring in place and tucks Marrie’s arm under his own, traipsing out of the room without another glance.

[roetrolls]

Reminder (No Relation)

(Previous)

The voices behind the door are muffled, but you can make them out well enough as you approach.

"You can't just keep it," you hear Cylion pleading, a hint of exasperation in his tone.

You hesitate in reaching for the doorknob. Are they busy?

"We need to dispose of it."

"You will do no such thing," comes your father's gruff reply.

"I found the needle." Somnia too? You can't remember the last time he was in Father's quarters. He usually took his visits elsewhere, put off by the room's damaged state.

"In a minute," Cylion sighs. "Father--"

A short growl rattles the door in its frame. You jump back slightly, tail flaring in surprise.

"For fuck's sake," Somnia mutters.

Even from the hallway, you can sense the tension in the room. Ever the optimist, however, you convince yourself rather suddenly that your presence might diffuse it.

Silence descends on the men in an instant, all heads turning as you push past the heavy wooden door and into their midst.

“Oh, shit.”

Before you can unpack Somnia’s strange reaction, Cylion is practically tripping over himself to get to you, a tight smile tugging at his lips.

“Nymira,” he greets you, moving with a sense of urgency even you take notice of. He sets his hands on your shoulders and chuckles nervously, shooting a glance at Somnia and jerking his head your way.

You lean to the side, trying to peer around him, and he follows suit. When you swing back the other way, so does he. 

“Somnia,” he grits, muscles tensed.

“Hello, Father!” you call over Cylion’s shoulder, drawing the man’s attention to you.

“Good evening, little sprout.” “Mira, hey! How long have you been up?” Somnia’s voice, just as tight as Cylion’s, overlaps with your father, but you pay his greeting little mind.

“What is everyone doing down here?” you ask, ducking out of Cylion’s grasp to run to Favion’s side.

“Nymira, wait!”

Your father sets down the object he has been holding and opens his arms to you. Eyes drawn to the movement, you see, of all things, a ring.

A ring that you made…

…and gave to Marrie.

There is a finger

still attached.

Marrie’s. Finger. And her hand. Her

arm.

The scream that tears itself from your throat does not feel like yours.

One of your brothers tries to take you by the arm, but you jerk away as if burned. They are saying your name, one or both of them, trying desperately to get your attention.

Inky tears roll down your cheeks, blinding and relentless, and you stare at your father in abject horror.

“What did you do?” You choke, yanking your arm away as another hand tries yet again to grasp it. “Why did you hurt her!?”

Favion reaches out, angling to wipe your tears. “No one was hurt, Sprout.”

You swat his hand away and swipe Marrie’s arm, tucking it to your chest like a wounded beast. “You’re lying!” you howl, stumbling back.

“It’s only a doll.”

“SHE’S MY FRIEND!”

“Mira–”

You whirl around and shove Somnia aside, flying out of the room as fast as your legs can carry you. Cylion shouts as you flee, but his words do not reach your ears. You do not slow down, do not stop until you are back in your bedroom, throat raw and lungs burning.

Little Friend stands at your desk, concern painting his tiny face, but you do not have the wherewithal to greet him. With Marrie’s arm still clutched to your chest, you lock the door and sink to the ground, crying all the while.

A strangled sob bubbles out of you, almost violent in the way it forces itself into being. In the back of your mind, a nagging voice finds a foothold.

You are going to forget.

Half crawling and half stumbling, you tear through the room like a hurricane, sweeping objects from the shelves in search of something. Little Friend paces across the desk in sync with you, keeping the distance between you as small as he can without jumping from his perch.

You have no pens. You can’t let yourself forget.

The door rattles in its frame.

“Nymira!” Cylion pants, voice muffled by the wood. “Nymira, please let me in.”

You shove a hand beneath your mattress, closing your fingers around the journal she gave you. The one to go with your pens.

“Please, Nymira, I’m worried about you!”

“Go away!” You shriek, slamming the journal onto your desk. Little Friend titters around your hands, anxious in his movements.

“I know you’re upset. Just talk to me.”

“You were going to hide it!”

You dig through your desk drawer, heart pounding in your ears. They will let you forget.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this, that’s all!”

You take a needle from the sewing kit.

“Nymira!”

With a shaking hand, you press the cold metal into your finger, watching through a fresh wave of tears as a dot of black blood blooms at the tip. You press your bloodied finger to the journal’s blank pages and begin to write, sliding it across the parchment in the cleanest strokes you can manage.

M-A-R-R-I-E.

You are trembling with exhaustion by the time you finish, head spinning as the adrenaline fades.

It is becoming difficult to keep your eyes open, this panicked frenzy having drained you more than you would have thought possible. The matter of hiding your journal is settled, at least, when Little Friend shoves the thing off your desk, shunting it into the same crack that supposedly swallowed your pens not long ago.

It is all you can do to hope that is enough as you collapse into bed, clutching the arm so tightly your knuckles turn white.

[roetrolls]

(Previous)

Missing?

“Cylion!”

Nymira found her brother in the hall outside her room, on his way past as she came stumbling through the door.

Quick to her aid as always, he turned just in time to catch her as she crashed into his chest, voice warbling with distress. She gripped his arms to steady herself, shiny black tears welling in her eyes and reflecting the light like a prism.

“My pens,” she hiccupped, childish despair forming an uncanny visage of the godling’s younger sweeps. “I can’t find my pens!”

Cylion smoothed her hair from her face, brows pricked together in confusion and concern. “Your pens? What pens?”

“They were on my desk, just this morning,” she babbled. “I put them back in the box and now they’re gone! I looked everywhere, they’re just gone!”

Finally, the pools in her eyes began to overflow, rolling down her cheeks in dark, heavy blobs and leaving stains in their wake like ink. 

“It’s alright, Mira, breathe,” he hushed her, running a soothing hand down the young woman’s back.

“They were right there!”

Cylion sighed gently, again stroking her back and smoothing her hair, feeling the frustration bunched into knots across her shoulders.

“I looked everywhere,” Nymira repeated weakly, pressing her face into his chest.

The oneirocritic considered her thoughtfully, speaking softly when at last he elected to reply. “Are you sure they were real?”

“Real?”

“Perhaps you dreamed them. Dreamed conjuring them.”

She shook her head fervently. “I didn’t conjure them! They were a gift!”

Just once, Cylion’s fingertips twitched.

——

Nymira stood to the side and watched him search, gnawing at her knuckles as Cylion sifted through her room.

She wasn’t exaggerating when she claimed she’d looked everywhere; the godling had truly turned the place upside down. Were she not so fixated on the missing pens, she might have had the mind to be embarrassed by the mess. Cylion had tidied for her so recently, and already his work was undone.

He flitted loosely about the space, appraising it silently as he looked for crannies where his sister’s lost treasure might be hiding. The half-hearted search quickly came to an end when he drifted over to her desk and crouched beside it, reaching an arm into the space between the table and the wall.

“Aha. They must of fallen off,” Cylion explained, withdrawing from the gap with pens and case in tow.

Relief washed over Nymira like a wave, quelling her frantic nerves to leave equal parts exhaustion and elation in their wake.

“Hm…” Cylion paused before returning the pens to her, turning one over in his hands and fiddling with the cap, which pressed into the base with a click.

A sympathetic smile graced his face.

“It seems they weren’t closed all the way. The ink may have dried out.”

Nymira’s heart sank, but she maintained her cheerful expression. “That’s alright. I’m just pleased to have them back.”

Cylion gave her an encouraging nod, rising to his feet. He left the box on the desk and pressed the pens into her hands, planting a kiss on her hairline.

“Do you need me for anything else?”

Nymira hummed thoughtfully, then shook her head and flashed him a small grin. “Thank you, Cylion.”

“Of course,” he smiled, squeezing her shoulder.

As he padded out of the room, the goddess turned her attention back to the pens and their bittersweet reunion. The journaling had been fun while it lasted, at least.

She ran a finger along the length of one, admiring the design and blushing at the idea that such a lovely picture could make Marrie think of her.

As she felt the plastic, however, Nymira felt a growing prickle of unease creep up her spine. Though she couldn’t place it, something felt strange about this scene.

She furrowed her brow, rolling the pens over in her hands. She had thought nothing of how quickly Cylion located them; her desk was the last place she had seen them, and she told him as much. What, then, made this feel so odd?

Again, she ran a finger along one of the pens, and with this action, the source of the strangeness slowly dawned on her.

The pens had fallen behind her desk.

How was it they returned to her completely free of dust?

[roetrolls]

Anyone like spooky nightmare sequences? :) Special shoutout to @/sasster for letting me put our grampa in here, as well as @/byrdstrolls, @/cryptiids, @/indig0trolls, @/sunnelion, and @/afallatmak, all of whom signed up for cameos in this without actually knowing it <3

Hallways

The Dreamer is unsurprised to find herself back in this place, unfazed by the yawning corridor that unfurls before her as she picks herself up off the floor. The hallway stretches past the horizon, far beyond where her eyes can see, and she only wishes there were time to find the end.

She is no stranger to this realm, and though she will not remember the feeling when she wakes, at this moment she is certain of her place in it.

The endless procession of doorways would be enough to drive any mortal mad, she thinks, but such things have never been a concern for her. Though each door appears identical to those around it, the Dreamer knows exactly what lies behind each one.

----

As always, she begins with the weary man.

To the Dreamer, he is as inherent to this realm as the very walls that make it, for she has never walked a version of this hall without him in it. She has known him longer than anyone, and remembers still when he was merely a tired boy– before the exhaustion had permeated his bones and the eyebags became a permanent fixture on his face.

Settling onto the bed beside him, The Dreamer brushes a thumb across one of those deep, dark bags and cups the young man’s cheek with care. She looks him over fondly, eyes glittering with the sympathy one might expect of an old, dear friend. 

He has looked less troubled in recent months, at least. With a pang, she wonders if he may one day stop appearing here. She wishes she could wish that for him.

When she is ready to begin, she closes her eyes and takes a breath. The floor shifts, and she finds herself in a cathedral not unlike that she was raised in, though every inch of the place burns with a venomous rancor that has seeped into the brick and stone itself.

The man is a child here, small and powerless in the pall of pink light that threatens to suffocate him. Though he tries to make sense of his surroundings, the church refuses to be understood, a tangled web of fractals built of scenery that is far too big. The child cowers beneath it all, hands pressed over his ears in a fruitless bid to stifle the screaming that rattles through his own head.

The Dreamer pays no mind to the room’s impossible structure or twisting walls, stepping forward with her tail fanned out behind her to offer the boy her hand. She has seen this dream before, and she knows what must be done. 

Shakily, he places his palm in hers and allows the Dreamer to pull him to his feet. It is a simple solution, this dream. Hand in hand, she leads the boy from the church. It is not meant to have an exit, but she has learned to bring one with her.

----

This visitor is older than most she sees, handsome face weathered with the strains of time and stress. The gray strands that pepper his hair are sparse, but the faint wrinkles around his eyes form the mask of a man who has seen far too much.

His expression, much unlike those that typically frequent her domain, is strangely relaxed, as though he has forgotten how to wear weakness on his face. The Dreamer lowers herself onto the bed beside him, reaching over gently to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. The man grimaces as her fingers brush his fins, but, as usual, he does not wake. She must do more than that to free him.

She closes her eyes and takes a small breath. As the air exits her lungs once more, the room falls away beneath her.

When her eyes flutter open, the man is standing, a squirming bundle pressed into his chest. Around him is a battlefield, streaked with blood of every hue and heavy with the scent of death. Bones crunch beneath his feet as he whirls about, desperately struggling to shield his precious cargo from an ever-shifting sun.

The air is as thick and sticky as the viscera around him, but it is the least of his concerns. The bundle shrieks and flails in pain, and the Dreamer realizes suddenly that it is an infant in his arms. 

The child is burning in his grasp, little face pink with heat and tears, but try as he might to shelter it, the man casts no shadow. Hands blistering in the brow-beating light, he fumbles to tuck the wiggler into his uniform, mouthing silent prayers to gods he neither fears nor believes in.

It is the prayer that returns the Dreamer to her senses, reminds her of the power she wields. With an urgency she is not used to feeling, she opens her tail fully and places herself between the visitor and his celestial assailant, shielding both father and son from the rays that threaten them. He looks her over, bewildered and grateful, before the dream comes to an end.

----

Again, the Dreamer finds a new face inside her hall. This one, too, wears the markings of age, though the placement of his wrinkles suggests more smiles than strife. She traces a finger over his skin, lathered in a galaxy of freckles unlike any she has seen before. 

For once, she almost hesitates to join him. Despite the joy etched into his features, there is a sadness to the man, and she cannot shake the feeling that he has visited a world unlike either of those she traverses. She has felt this once before, she recalls, when the striped boy began appearing, but the weight this man carries is different somehow.

Still, he is here with her now, and the Dreamer does not discriminate. She has stalled this long enough, and it is time to see inside.

The scent of blood hits her before she has even entered fully. Immediately, she expects that this dream may be built of more memory than abstraction, a thread of vanilla splicing through the heavy current of decay that surrounds the scene.

She can feel blood pooling at her ankles, thick and viscous, and a single glance reveals the source; the freckled man sits hunched in the center of the room, a muddy red waterfall pouring from his mouth.

The Dreamer wades closer as he begins to claw fruitlessly at his throat, gurgling helplessly around the cascade of blood that forces its way out of him. He sounds almost as if he is trying to scream, though a painful whine is all he can muster in this state.

Gently, she takes him by the wrists and pulls his hands away, moving then to cup the man’s face and wipe away the tears collecting beneath his eyes. With her touch, the flow of blood begins to lessen, until it is only a trickle that runs from his lips. 

With no exit in sight, she does the only other thing she can think to, and cradles the crying man against her chest. Her tail moves to cover them both, blocking out the lingering odor of death and sheltering him long enough for his breathing to become steady.

They sit like that for some time, until finally he is whisked away to a more peaceful sleep.

--

The Dreamer continues down the hall at a steady pace, stepping into countless rooms and countless dreams as the morning wears on. Countless, that is, for anyone else. 

But who would the Dreamer be if she did not keep track?

These visitors are her people, and she is keen to remember each and every one. There is no faceless crowd to lose them in. She carries them all.

She carries the young girl who twists and flails in an all-consuming tide of brackish water, almost alive in the way it reaches for her limbs and drags her to its depths; the masked man who stands, shrinking under the oppressive gaze of his elders, until laughter and music is interrupted by the whistling impact of war; the purple-haired troll who is dragged, kicking and screaming, back to a life she cannot bear, her fingers digging into the sodden earth until the pull becomes too much and they splinter apart like bones. 

The Dreamer holds them, guides them, frees them from their chains, and still she carries them with her.

She remembers the troll with ink on his wrists, who begs for mercy while he is made to flay a man who wears his face, guilt sagging in his gut until he is certain it will be the death of him; the soldier that runs on blood not his own, grasping for innocent faces that slip through his fingers like grains of sand, a chorus of blame racketing through his brain; the sharp-eyed man who walks amongst gravestones, free of dread until he stumbles upon an open casket and a name he knows, the woman he failed reaching for him even as the flesh sloughs off her skull.

With each visitor she frees, the Dreamer can only look to the next, can only hope that it is not yet time to wake; there is so much more to do.

She slips into the room of another visitor she knows, the crying boy, and enters his dream as she has the rest to find him weeping, locked in a labyrinth of rippling beasts that want nothing more than to rip him into pieces.

The Dreamer offers the boy a reassuring smile as she takes him by the hand, but she is nowhere near prepared when he opens his mouth to speak.

It is the first voice she has heard all morning, and there is a question in his tone that he seems to answer on his own before the word is even finished.

“Nymira,” he says, her name almost a whisper on his lips.

The Dreamer’s eyes widen, and she shoots up, awake.

[roetrolls]

What is he doing to you

"Nothing... yet. He says... He's fixing the window."

[roetrolls]

DREAM SEQUENCE RECAP PART ONE: The Arc Thus Far

As you all know, my dear beloved Chase @sasster and I discovered around two years ago that we really like making stories together. We've gotten very good at it, I think!

But no matter how good at it we are, it can be a bit hard to follow a plot that's moving along as sporadically as this one has been. That's not a knock against us, life can be demanding.

But, for both our sake and yours, I thought it might be helpful to write up a summary of everything that's happened in this narrative so far. So sit back, take a nap, and let's go over what we know ✨

FIRST: THE MAJOR PLAYERS

The Church of The Divine Dreamer - A non-clown religion built upon the worship of dreams. According to its devotees, dreams take place in the divine world, which we are linked to through subconscious thought. They believe that the act of dreaming is in itself holy.

Nymira - A spacey blackblooded mutant who is, purportedly, a fledgling god. With a host of abilities related to dreaming, she is seen as a bridge between worlds and the personification of divinity. She can conjure objects from her dreams into the waking world, and though she is less practiced in it, she also possesses the ability to traverse the dreams of others and pull them into her own.

Cylion Lefera - The current head of the church and eldest child of its founder, Cylion serves as Nymira's prophet, mouthpiece, and even guardian at times. He claims to possess no abilities of his own, but trusting anything he says could prove to be a mistake...

Somnia Poppet - The middle child between Nymira and Cylion, Somnia proselytizes for the church and acts as its head of security. He's a weaselly little thing, but he's powerful in his own right. Though perhaps there's a caveat?

Favion Lefera - The church's founder, Nymira's first (and imperfect) prophet, and the father of the trio above. There is something wrong with Favion... But we'll get into that later. For now, what you really need to know is that Nymira loves him dearly, and she even uses her powers to create a tonic that can help with his condition.

Little Friend - Nymira's dearest buddy and closest confidant (a position he happened to steal from Cylion). LF is a doll, created in Nymira's dreams and brought to life through the generous aid of the Restorer-- It seems the Roatus clan might just be wrapped up in this too!

THE BACKGROUND

So now we know who's on the board... But perhaps we could understand these players a bit better.

First, just a quick peek into the dynamics at play within the COTDD. These are less crucial to the actual events of the plot, but say a lot about the characters themselves. Have some drabbles about:

Nymira and Cylion Favion's lovely treatment of Nymira One of Cylion's core memories With the supplemental reading out of the way, let's jump back in time, shall we? Because it turns out Favion and Ailzea have some history...

Childhood Woes - In this drabble from the Restorer's youth, we learn several important things about Favion. The first is that, once upon a time, he was a under the thumb of Ailzea's abusive ancestor. The second is that he loves torturing Ailzea's dolls. Third, he has always been fixated on getting a true reaction out of his "friend." And fourth? Favion has died at Ailzea's hand.

That last point is especially vital, because unlike most people Ailzea revives, Favion possesses the innate ability to dampen the powers of other trolls. He came back... But not quite right.

And he really hates the Restorer.

Good thing he doesn't know about his daughter's greatest treasure, huh? Cylion knows, though.

And Cylion loathes that thing.

It doesn't help that Little Friend knows about some of the secrets Cylion is keeping from Nymira... Like the fact that he has the power to manipulate dreams, and many of the messages she receives to guide her hand come straight from him.

Table Talk - We learn that little tidbit here. Somnia thinks it's hilarious. It also helps explain a little semi-canon something that happened earlier. See, Nymira sometimes struggles to tell whether or not she's dreaming. So when the same person who helps someone differentiate the two is also able to dictate what they dream?

Well. Sounds like a recipe for dictating that someone's very reality.

That fact might be why Nymira's had so little practice with her second ability. She can't exactly go visiting dreams while she's having custom-made ones pumped into her head, now can she? Still, the dream-hopping she does manage to do is very important to her, as we learn in Hallways, a drabble about Nymira's routine and thoughts inside her own domain.

That drabble ends in a rather unique way, though. One of the visitors she comes upon speaks her name, cementing her certainty that these are real people and real dreams that she is poking into, not just figments of her subconscious mind.

Cylion wants her to believe that's not the case. As much as she trusts her brother, it's frustrating to feel that he's not listening to her.

Hello, seeds of unrest. Shall we uproot the status quo?

UPROOT WE SHALL

Have you ever met Marrie? She's Ailzea's daughter, a life-sized marionette with an adorable smile and a heart of gold. She's also friends with Nymira! Little Friend needs to visit the House of Restoration regularly to stay in working order, and Marrie delights in the task of ferrying him between the churches. Especially because it allows her to speak with Nymira, even if Cylion sometimes tries to keep that time short.

Quick Visit - This time Cylion's busy, though. And that's about to cause him quite the headache. You see, Marrie's bought Nymira a journal... And some pens...

Thing is, Cylion goes to great lengths to keep writing utensils out of his sister's hands. After all, when he benefits so much from being able to decide for her what's real and what isn't, what could he possibly stand to gain from allowing her to leave notes about? No, that won't do at all.

Missing? - No worries. It doesn't take long for Cylion to notice the pens, though he doesn't know where they've come from. In fact, he assumes Nymira must have conjured them herself. Easy fix, then, right? He probably thinks so! Until, of course, he discovers that someone else can corroborate their existence... Time to think fast.

Too bad for him, it seems Cylion has forgotten something about his sister–– she's trusting. Not stupid. And even the most naive troll can notice a lie if it's sloppy enough.

Especially one who combs through details with such idle frequency that they've formed an absent tick of counting how many fingers they have.

Nymira is uneasy.

And then Marrie meets her dad.

SHIT HITS THE FAN

Pretty Doll - Remember that thing we learned about Favion? The one where he really, really likes breaking Ailzea's creations? Marrie is one of those. You can see where this is going.

Or... Where it would be going, at least.

Interception - Because Cylion and Somnia aren't the only brothers hanging around this arc, and Archie Roatus will be damned if he lets someone hurt his sister and get away with it. Welcome to the narrative, Archie! You're gonna have a great time, don't even worry about it.

Archie gets Marrie out with minimal damage, just a single arm left behind. That's minimal, she's made of wood. She's fine. It's fine.

Reminder - Except it isn't. Because Nymira's here to witness the aftermath, and she is not happy. Especially after overhearing that Cylion intended to hide Marrie's arm before she could see it. In a fit of near hysteria and with her pens bled dry by her brother, she takes drastic measures to ensure she won't forget what she's learned. Black blood must look remarkably like ink, don't you think?

White Bear - And she's not the only one keeping this incident in their thoughts. Archie's back, and he's having trouble moving on from what Favion has done to his family. He promised Ailzea not to act on those feelings, but, well... Ever heard of the white bear experiment? Archie accidentally activates his powers and teleports to Favion. Whoopsie!

In the resulting interaction, he realizes that Favion's abilities mitigate his own, and he buys time to get out by mouthing off and generally being a little shit.

And there we go! That's all we've got, at least for now... Let's see what we dream up next.