#nymira writing

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“You… You’re lying,” she accuses him with a shaking voice, the strength of the statement superseded by her own disbelief.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

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Cullen and Trevelyan go for a walk.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,902. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 5: Give Him A Chance

Lady Montilyet led Trevelyan to the Great Hall like a guilty man to his judgement.

Her sentence? A walk with the Commander.

And there he stood, shoulders slumped, by the grand doors—no doubt wishing he could escape through them. Maker, he had this whole ‘grumpy and unsociable’ act down to a fine art, didn’t he? How very Fereldan.

“Commander Rutherford,” Lady Montilyet greeted, ever-smiling, “you remember Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick, do you not?”

He managed only a second of eye contact with her, before grumbling, “Yes, of course.”

Lie. He certainly hadn’t remembered her last night, whilst he was freely insulting her across the garden.

“A pleasure to meet you again, Commander,” said Trevelyan, curtsying. Because if he was lying, so would she.

He offered an awkward, stiff sort-of bow in return. At least it was a step-up from the handshake. Lady Montilyet must have said something.

“Well, I shall leave you to your walk,” she told them. “Where shall you go? The stables are a fair prospect, I think.”

Less a suggestion, and more an instruction. But Trevelyan was well-pleased with the idea of seeing some horses. Better than a dog lord.

Speaking of which—he extended an arm towards the doors, and said, “After you.”

Oh, how kind of him to set his self-importance aside for such a fleeting moment! For, if she was ahead of him, he would not be able to see her eyes roll.

Then again, no wonder he was so full of himself. The main doors of Skyhold’s keep were as tall as the building itself, and stepped out onto a landing, high above the courtyard below. Practically put, this was to funnel invaders onto the stairs, and halt their advance. But it was a grand enough an entrance to make anyone feel important. Whomsoever originally built this place must’ve had a good eye for defense, and a massive ego.

From this height, one could survey nearly the entire hold. To the east, an armoury and a tavern—the one Trevelyan had heard the previous night—separated by some kind of sparring ring, in which the soldiers trained. Sunken below this was the gatehouse, which Trevelyan and the Commander descended towards, headed for the promised stables in the west.

Unlike her company, Trevelyan found the hold to be quite pleasant. Bright blue skies and shining white mountains, like the backdrop of a painting, surrounded them. There were lush green grasses underfoot, and the scent of woodsmoke in the air. Skyhold’s residents were a hive of activity, their ambient chatter and laughter a cheerful little accompaniment to one’s own pursuits.

And it was thankfully unspoilt by the Commander’s own voice—not that Trevelyan had made much of an attempt to persuade the man to speech. She had made all such attempts at impressing him that she cared to last night, and he had rebuffed every one. Instead, she acted as she imagined the Baroness Touledy might, and awaited his attempts at impressing her.

That said, his continued silence became a tad grating.

“I am from Ostwick, in the Free Marches,” Trevelyan said, somewhat startling him. “Do you recall?”

“I… yes,” he muttered.

“You lived in the Free Marches, once?”

“Yes, in Kirkwall.”

“So I have heard,” she said.

“I prefer not to speak of it,” he replied.

“I’ve heard that too.”

They passed beneath an ancient archway, of a bridge which connected the keep to the castle walls. Skyhold’s engineers must truly have been qualified, for such old architecture not to have fallen in yet.

Beyond it, lay the western courtyard. This area was busier than all the others combined, for it boasted a market, with traders of every kind. Its central path was understandbly well-worn by cart-tracks and hoof-prints, which lead the way to the stables ahead.

“What is it,” the Commander mumbled, a rare instance of speech, “that you know about me, exactly?”

Trevelyan chuckled. “Oh, barely anything.”

“Then what little do you know?”

One fact sprung most clearly to mind: “That you were a Templar.”

“I… was.”

Curious phrasing. The hesitancy, too. There was something quavering in his voice that seemed to chime with what Trevelyan had been told about his past. She asked:

“What does that mean?”

He replied, “I am no longer part of the Order.”

“Fortunate, considering all that’s happened.”

“Indeed.”

They fell to quiet, as Trevelyan contemplated this, and the Commander glanced up to check the battlement patrols. Perhaps it would be too much to ask, but she had to:

“Would you return?” she wondered. “If all was settled, and there was an Order to return to?”

His face was lost, for a moment. As if… he had never considered the question before. Yet with some thought, it appeared he had his answer: “I… no.”

“Why not?”

“I would prefer not to speak of it.”

That old chestnut. Truly, she wondered, “Then what would you prefer to speak of, Commander?”

His movements stuttered. “I’m… not sure.”

“Most people have things they prefer to speak of,” Trevelyan told him. “I, for example, prefer to speak of the books I’ve read, the news I have heard, and magic, of course.”

“I see.”

That was it. No reciprocal list. Fine.

For a good long minute, they stood as they were, and stared into the stables. There were rows of pens, some occupied, some not. Every one of the occupants present, however, was one of the most beautiful horses Trevelyan had ever seen. Amazing, that they could keep them so well, out in the mountains. She wondered which belonged to the Commander.

He spoke up at last. “I suppose I don’t have much time for idle conversation.”

She’d heard that too. “Well, then… why don’t we take the rest of our walk in silence?”

It was a sarcastic comment, meant sarcastically, using sarcasm. And yet, the Commander replied,

“If you’d like.”

“Oh.” Trevelyan was so bewildered by this response, she had little to say in recourse—except: “All right.”

They departed the stables, and returned the way they had come—slowly, to the Commander’s credit, but in absolute silence. Trevelyan attempted to persuade herself not to be so concerned about it. The onus was on him. He was to impress her. If silence was all he was willing to offer, then silence it was.

But it was so painfully awkward! Even when they passed his soldiers, he remained silent, merely nodding to them in acknowledgement. Had he no common ground with them, either?

Back beneath the bridge, past the gatehouse. Silent, all the while. It gave Trevelyan plenty of time to admire the architecture. Verdict: there was a lot of it.

One feature in particular caught her eye, however—a tower stood proud upon the eastern battlement, the very one mentioned by the Grand Enchanter. Somehow, Trevelyan had yet not noticed the banner unfurled from its parapet. Though it fluttered in the breeze, its circular symbol was clear: magi.

“My apologies for breaking our vow of silence,” she said, “but is that the mage tower?”

The Commander followed her eyeline. “I suppose,” he murmured, “but, not in the traditional sense. It is a place for magical research and study, which means it is naturally more populated by mages than anyone else—but they are not beholden to its bounds.”

Interesting. Trevelyan paused to admire it. The structure stretched about two stories higher than the battlements, all told. Arbor blessing and ivy draped itself over the sides. The wallflowers adorning it ought not to be blooming this time of year, yet they did. As if by magic.

“Would you like to visit it?” asked the Commander.

Maker, a rare offer of kindness! With surprise, she replied, “Oh, yes—of course!”

“Then I will see if someone is available to show you around.”

Ah, there it was. Not so much a gesture of goodwill, but a tactic to rid himself of her.

“Is that the end of our walk, then?” she queried.

“I… ah… it’s been half an hour already.” A lie. “The reports on my desk will be mounting.” Probably true.

She wouldn’t fight it; if he had no interest in impressing her, then she had none in him. “Very well, then.”

She allowed him to guide her the rest of the way in silence. Up the stairs, onto the battlements. Passing soldiers with nothing more than a nod. Not a single word said.

Until he saw a woman walking ahead. She was elven, by the point of her ears, with pasty skin and frizzy blonde hair, that had been pulled into some sort of ponytail. But by this appearance alone, the Commander was able to call her name:

“Bramley!”

The woman halted, and whirled on the spot. She had a pleasantly normal appearance, compared to that of manicured nobility, which reminded Trevelyan of the mages she once knew in the Circle. Except, in lieu of Circle robes, she wore a simple working dress.

“Afternoon, Commander,” said Bramley. “Can I help you?”

“Do you have a moment?” the Commander asked. Bramley tucked the books she carried under her arm, and nodded. “This is Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick. She’s a mage.”

And not the only one here, if the shift in the Fade—which lingered always at the edge of Trevelyan’s perception—was anything to go by.

Bramley performed a little curtsy, and smiled. “Pleasure to meet you, your Ladyship.”

Trevelyan did the same. “And you, Miss Bramley.”

“Is that all, Commander?” Bramley asked him, with a hint of cheek in her tone that Trevelyan could hardly believe she was using to address a superior.

Yet the Commander appeared to take it in stride. “I was wondering if you could take her around the tower. Lady Trevelyan has expressed an interest.”

“Oh—of course! Saves me doing this reading.”

“Thank you.” He turned to Trevelyan, and bowed. “I shall leave you here, then. Farewell, your Ladyship.”

Trevelyan plastered on a smile. “Farewell, Commander.”

And off he pissed. Thank the Maker! Though Trevelyan had endured far more excruiciating encounters with potential suitors, at the very least she wasn’t trapped with them for an entire month. The less of that month she spent around the Commander, the better.

“So,” Bramley said, a distraction Trevelyan was grateful for, “Ostwick Circle, eh? Don’t get many from there.”

Many? Implying some? “Do you know of anyone else from Ostwick?”

“Not personally. Though if you ask around, you can find someone from any Circle you like. I’m from Kinloch, meself. Anyway—you coming?”

Oh, absolutely. With eagerness and haste, she hurried after Bramley, as the woman unceremoniously booted open the tower door. Such sensibilities—or lack thereof—ought to have shocked and appalled her. But Maker, did the casual nature of the kick, and the utter lack of pretense within, remind her of the rare comforts of home. Not her parents’ home. The one she’d had before.

The home the interior of this tower echoed perfectly. Workbenches lined every wall. Contraptions and shelves, too—filled with herbs and tinctures and ingredients of note. Mages wandered to and fro, all in a similar manner of dress to Bramley: that is to say, entirely normal.

The Grand Enchanter had not lied. This was different.

“Shall we work our way up?” asked Bramley.

Trevelyan gazed heavenward. There were two more levels, mezzanine, brimming with even more mages and magic and magical things. Smiling—wide and true, this time—she said, “Whatever you think best.”

Bramley gestured to the room around them. “Well, this is primal. Or—it’s supposed to be. We tried to split them into schools, but things get muddled no matter how you try.”

Nevertheless, the bookshelves were lined with tomes on the elements, which Trevelyan could not help but long to crack open.

“Anyway, people who study primals can usually be found here. Not always for destructive purposes, mind you—a bit of fire magic warms a bath up lovely.”

Trevelyan chuckled. “And ice magic cools a drink in summer.”

“Exactly—though we’ve plenty of ice around here regardless,” Bramley teased. “But you probably know your primals. Upstairs is where it gets interesting.”

The purview of floor two was spirit and entropy—research into the Fade, and the cycle of life and death. They only had three floors; something was bound to double up.

“Our work tends towards stabilising rifts and understanding them,” Bramley explained. “We think we might be able to find a method of predicting them, even. But I’ll be honest, you ever have questions about the Fade, you ask Solas.”

Trevelyan had no idea who that was, but made a mental note, regardless.

The final floor was that of creation—though one could have guessed as much by the scant number of mages operating within, or the scrolls on the wall, depicting common-use glyphs and wards. It reminded Trevelyan of the ones she’d taught with, back in Ostwick.

However, given the abundance of elfroot and anatomy books around, the Inquisition’s efforts appeared to lean more toward healing. Quite understandable, really, what with an army to keep on its feet.

“Last, and absolutely least,” Bramley said, indicating a ladder to the ceiling, “up there.”

It led to a hatch, through which one arrived upon the roof. There was nothing up here, beside the view—but what a magnificent view it was. Trevelyan felt as tall as the mountain peaks, an endless horizon in her sights. Remarkable.

“We call this the astrarium,” said Bramley, the wind whipping hair into her face, “because there’s nothing to see up here but the stars.”

Trevelyan smiled. She knew that much already.

“That’s all there is to show, I’m afraid,” Bramley told her. “But you’re welcome to come and go as you please.”

That reminded Trevelyan of something. “The Commander said similar—that mages aren’t beholden to the tower.”

“That’s correct.”

“What about Skyhold? Could you leave if you wanted?”

“If you fancy a hike, I suppose.”

“The Templars won’t stop you?”

Bramley blinked. “Oh! No, nothing like that. We have a couple hanging ‘round, but they’re for show. Won’t stop you coming or going. They’ll even learn your name and all. Full-on fraternisation.”

“Oh.”

“The Commander always lets us know who it’ll be, when and where, too. Doesn’t want any mistrust between us—Maker, he’s seen enough Circles collapse to know the old ways don’t work.”

Trevelyan noted what sounded, once more, like praise for the Commander. There had to be two of him. It couldn’t be the same man.

Her thoughts must have been too loud, however—for Bramley fixed her with a curious stare. “Hope you don’t mind my asking, but you wouldn’t happen to be one of the Ladies here for the Commander, would you?”

Trevelyan shrugged. “I suppose I am.”

Bramley chuckled. “Thought so. How’s he been?”

“Well, he doesn’t seem keen on ‘fraternising’ himself.”

“I wouldn’t take it personally,” Bramley reassured her. “Not ‘cause you’re a mage, at least. He’s said before he thought the rule against it was a load of guff—just breeds paranoia and tension. He’s definitely shown no qualms about… well, to be polite for your Ladyship, let’s say some of our mages and Templars get on very well.”

“Oh!” Trevelyan’s brows flicked upward. “I understand. But worry not—you needn’t be coy with me. I wasn’t always a Lady. In my Circle, I was a mage no different from you, or anyone else here.”

Emboldened by this, Bramley asked, “Which is better?”

Despite everything? “The latter.”

“Then you should come back when you like—maybe get a bit of respite, just be a mage for a few hours.”

“I’d love that.”

Pleased by this answer, Bramley invited her back into the tower. They exchanged the whistle of the wind for the chatter of the mages, and the otherworldly sounds of their various magics. Bramley said to her, “If we haven’t scared you off, then when you do come back, we can—!”

A crash disrupted the entire building. All stopped. Trevelyan and Bramley raced to the railing, and peered down to the bottom floor. A door had been barged open and, of all people, a dwarf stomped through it.

“Dagna!” Bramley, grinning, looked to Trevelyan. “Sorry, I need to go speak to her. Come with if you like!”

Too intrigued to say no, Trevelyan hurried after her. They spilled out onto the bottom floor, where the dwarven woman spoke to another mage. Her eyes caught on Bramley, and she perked.

“Oh, Bramley! You’re here!”

Trevelyan took in the woman’s presenation—little of it that there was. She was definitely some kind of worker. A hard worker, too, given the scuffs on her breastplate, and the wear on her gloves. Not easy to rub leather that raw without a bit of manual labour.

Her pale skin was smudged with some kind of grease or oil, some of which had even caught up in her hair, turning strands from brown to black. None of this seemed to perturb her; and from the way it perturbed no one else around them, Trevelyan surmised this was the woman’s base standard.

As she took off her gloves and stuffed them into a pocket, she asked Bramley, “How’s Nymira and the baby?”

“Oh, plenty well,” Bramley told her. “It’s Jayek who’s lost his damn mind. He keeps getting up with her—I keep telling him, one of you ought to be sleeping. Now he’s tired, who could’ve guessed!?”

“You escaped, huh?”

Bramley waved a hand. “More like ‘kicked out for trying to help’...”

Their conversation wound on. Trevelyan departed it, to instead sate her curiosity. This Dagna had brought with her a little wooden hand-cart, stuffed to the brim with mysterious shards of metal. The appearance was odd, for what ought to have been mere scrap. Faintly-glowing blue lines had been etched into the surface, the last evidence of some kind of enchantment. The runes were barely legible, twisted and bent as it the shards were. Were those scorch marks? What had this contraption been?

She was soon to find out.

“—and this is Lady Trevelyan, from Ostwick Circle.”

Trevelyan alerted at mention of her name. Both Bramley and the dwarf were staring at her.

“Nice to meet you,” said the latter, extending a hand, “I’m Dagna. The resident Arcanist.”

The lack of curtsy didn’t even cross Trevelyan’s mind. “A pleasure, Arcanist Dagna. You do enchantments?”

“Enchantment, research—I’m a bit of a magical know-it-all. I mean, a know-it-all for magic, not a know-it-all with magic. Can’t do that. But I can make things!”

Bramley must’ve spotted Trevelyan’s confusion, for she spoke up: “Dagna’s studied for—what is it?—over a decade in various Circles. She works in the Undercroft, advises the top brass, and pokes into things a bit too risky for us.”

“Lyrium and the Fade, mainly,” Dagna added. “Fine for me to prod about, not so much for you.”

“Fascinating,” Trevelyan said. “I’ve never heard of a dwarf attending a Circle.”

“It doesn’t happen too often.”

“And thank the Maker for that!” Bramley scolded. “Can’t imagine more of you, running around, exploding things.” She pointed at the ruined contraption. “I told her that wouldn’t work.”

“What… is it?” Trevelyan asked.

Dagna sighed, and turned to her shards. She plucked one from the pile with an awful scrape—yet nary a flinch—and rotated it in her hand like one would examine a leaf. “We have a bit of a Red Templar problem. I was hoping that if I could make an enchantment that was triggered to explode by the presence of lyrium, we could, you know… burst ‘em.”

“But it reacts to the presence of the lyrium in the enchantment and detonates itself?”

“You got it!”

Bramley folded her arms. “Like I told you it would. Like we all did. Like you yourself knew it would, I bet! But Nymira wasn’t there to tell you ‘no’.”

Dagna tossed the chunk of metal aside. “Well, nothing to do except try again!”

“No!”

Yet it seemed that this Dagna had made up her mind, regardless of Bramley’s protestation. She took up her cart, and headed for the door. “Nice to meet you, your Ladyship. And I’ll see you later, Bramley, if you’re still around.”

“If you are, more like.”

“I’ll be fine! Tell Nymira I miss her”—she pulled the door open with a foot, and held it there—“and that the Tranquil are great, but they don’t have her humour.”

“I’ll pass it on.”

With a wave, Dagna slipped from the tower. Bramley shook her head as soon as the door was shut.

“Thank the Maker she can’t do magic,” she muttered.

Trevelyan chuckled. “She certainly seems interesting. May I ask, who is Nymira?”

“One of my partners. She worked as assistant to Dagna, but with the pregnancy and now the baby, she’s had to take time away.”

“Is she a mage?”

Bramley nodded. “You can imagine—in the late stages especially—it was a little dangerous.”

But that was not the danger Trevelyan’s mind had fixated upon. “She… didn’t have to give the baby away?”

“Oh.” Bramley’s face sank into solemnity. “It’s not a Circle, your Ladyship. I promise.”

“Good,” said Trevelyan—relieved, to say the least, “good.”

Bramley patted her shoulder. “You know, you really should come back here, your Ladyship—if you can find the time. Might be nice. Though—you’ve probably enough to do, what with the Commander and all…”

Trevelyan smiled. “Oh, I have quite a bit of time, it seems.” She resolved herself, standing a little taller. “I think I have missed being a mage. I should like to have another try at it, under different circumstances.”

“So you ought to”—Bramley winked—“if only to get all that noble out of your voice!”

***

Though she felt she would sleep a little better tonight if she tried, Trevelyan returned to the battlements.

There was something about seeing those stars which soothed her. Their soft gazes were like that of the mages in the tower: new, but familiar.

That tower stood sentinel, nearby. Though the torches outside were lit, all within was dark. Yet nothing could extinguish the light and life Trevelyan had seen inside. Bramley had been so kind, and the place had been so welcoming and intriguing. And so, so different.

Trevelyan’s mind hooked on one aspect in particular: Dagna. A dwarven arcanist? A rare and captivating idea. Her project, too, was an object of extreme intere—

“Commander.”

Trevelyan jolted. Though she’d acknowledged the watchman on arrival—same lad as the previous night—she had promptly set about politely ignoring him, much as he politely ignored her. This, however, she could not ignore.

She slipped a look over her shoulder, to watch as the Commander, still in his armour and mantle, marched across the battlements. Once again, his strides circumvented her, in favour of the stairs.

Ridiculous. If they were stuck with each other, they might as well acknowledge it.

“Good evening, Commander,” she called to him.

He stopped a moment, and glanced at her. His eyebrows furrowed, his mouth parted—but his head turned, and off he marched, without a word.

A second chance she had been told to give, and a second chance she had given him. He did not seem interested.

Fine, neither was she. Her interests lay elsewhere. Her interests lay in the Undercroft.

[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)

[melitinos]

Nymira

Nymira’s birth was the result of a collision between two galaxies (the Antennae galaxies) in the constellation Corvus which makes her a celestial being: a living star.

She is roughly 300 million years old. † skin shimmers within the sunlight. † blonde and blue-eyed. eyes have a slight starburst of purple when casting abilities. † a soft chime-like sound is heard when moving about. † when happy, she’ll have a soft glow about her. nothing too bright that’ll cause discomfort if gazing upon her. † has metallic gold blood

The star has found herself grounded upon Earth and unable to leave. † takes on a human form, but her true form remains a mystery as she has never shown any mortal or god. † insp.

Abilities

Stardust Manipulation: create, shape and manipulate stardust, mineral grains and particles of cosmic substances originating from or embody remnants of dead stars, nebula, and meteorites. † visible dust, gold in colour.

Stardust attacks: attacks are a combination of light and stardust. nymira is a caster.

Stellar Healing: uses stardust to heal wounds. † visible dust, silver in colour. † when dust touches one’s skin, it is warm to the touch aimed to be soothing. † lingering scent of her healing magics has a soft, sweet smell. such magic can even be tasted. gods themselves have deemed it as their ambrosia, nectar or honey.

Wish granting: nymira can grant wishes, but only one per person. this only works if the one making the wish knows what she is and is a true believer of magics.

[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]

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]

Many sweeps ago.. hm.. Nymira

SO glad you asked <3

---

"I don't want to play this anymore," Nymira announced suddenly, dropping her toys to the floor and rising to her feet. "I want to play something else."

Cylion blinked, taken aback by the abrupt interjection. He recovered quickly enough, furrowing his brow and tilting his head at the pout his sister now wore.

"No? I thought you liked this game."

Nymira shook her head fervently, mood obviously soured. "I want to play something else," she repeated, face incredibly grave for a three-sweep-old.

He didn't object, simply following her lead and setting down his dolls. "What would you like to play?"

Instantly, her face brightened, tail rustling her delight as she hopped forward to grab hold of his arm. Though he was nearly twice her age, the yellowblood allowed himself to be moved, standing up as she pulled him.

"Schoolfeeding!" she chirped, eyes shimmering with hope.

Cylion fought off a grimace. "Again?"

Instantly, the godling's pout returned.

"We can play schoolfeeding," he assured her quickly, watching her face relax once more. "I just thought you'd be tired of it by now."

Again, Nymira shook her head with a fervor that made Cylion dizzy. "I like to pretend!"

"You can pretend to be all sorts of things. Doesn't this one bore you?" It certainly bored him. Toiling away in his own classes just to come home and recreate them wasn't exactly his idea of fun, but he couldn't deny it made her happy. Even as he asked, he knew what the answer would be.

Other children may fantasize about slaying monsters and learning magic, but a goddess?

"I like playing mortal."

[roetrolls]

Many sweeps ago for Nymira :)

hi i could wait to post this when it's not 1:20 am but. y'know, it feels in the spirit of the thing

---

It was a still morning in the children’s wing, the quiet dawn disturbed only by the soft pitter patter of little feet tamping down the hall.

Nymira appeared in her father’s doorway with a hand to her mouth, teeth resting against her knuckle in a childish gesture she’d yet to outgrow. Clutched in her other fist was a blanket, pulled straight from her bed and dragged after her like a train.

Within the room, Favion stirred, though she struggled to determine whether he was really awake. Her uncertainty did not last long.

“Come here, little sprout. What are you doing up?”

With her prophet’s permission, she tottered over to the bed, blanket still draped behind her. He hooked his hands beneath her arms and lifted her onto his lap, safe and secure in his clawed embrace.

“I felt lonely,” Nymira mumbled through her hand, leaning into the man’s chest. She paused to soak in the smell of him, the feel of his nightshirt’s soft fabric pressed against her cheek. 

Favion brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, his thumb rubbing gentle arcs along her jaw. “You did very good, coming to me. There’s no reason to be lonely while I’m here.”

“Cylion and Somnia get to share their space,” she added as he laid her down in the bed beside him. “They don’t ever get lonely.”

There was no reason to remind him, of course. It was Favion that arranged for the boys’ rooms to be connected in the first place. The conversation lulled as he tucked her beneath the covers, settling in himself a moment later and then returning his hand to pet her face.

“Why can’t I share with them?” She asked, with the cadence of someone who had already posed the same question many times before. Her father, for all the whisperings of his monstrosity, had only ever been patient and kind toward Nymira, and the goddess always spoke her thoughts freely.

Still, his answer was the same. 

“You are very special, my little dreamer. The rules are different for you.”

“Do they play games in there without me?”

Favion smoothed her hair with one large, clawed hand, laying a kiss on her forehead as if to ease the crease in her brow. “Of course not, sprout. You are the center of everything.”

[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.

[roetrolls]

Possessed by nymira (got the eepy)

I SWEAR TO GOD

THE AMOUNT THIS HAPPENS SPECIFICALLY WHILE I'M WORKING ON NYMIRA WRITING--

IT CANNOT BE COINCIDENCE