‧₊˚Dream-haunted ⊹°.

Once, Rynesmira had believed the world susceptible to study.

Once, she had believed the Light spoke in patterns.

As a girl, she found them everywhere.

In the latticework of stained glass. In the measured cadence of liturgy. In the quiet geometry of a chessboard awaiting its first move.

Send a symbol for a headcanon about my muse. All horror/angst/scifi related.

The Nymph lay quietly, perched along the edge of a creek that trickled quietly against the driven snow banks. A faerie circle of blooming sylphlike flora encompassed her from the perpetual mourning and previous falling of teardrops. A bare foot idly kicked within the frigid water, somnolent gaze glassy, reflecting the rippling crescent moon within wintry hollow depths, and no matter how hard she stared and longed for it so, her image would never reveal itself. The lower tier of her rose petal lips quivered, the brooding blizzard of thought but a catalyst to the palpitating sensation within her chest where her heart began its perpetuated corruption of the consciousness, consuming her mind entirely with poisoned phantasmagoria and emotions both her’s and not her own.

Her opaline eyes reflected otherworlds. Alll of the realms she had seen, all of the secrets she had apprehended, and all of the magic which has and ever shall be coarsed through her vessel. Veins of azure reflected from her with a wavering caustic light, moon-kissed flesh diaphanous as ice. A rabbit’s heart made of frangible glass, a bell jar of dreams, retained all the pain of every denizen of worlds she had crossed, and even the memories of those that have come and gone. A snow globe of her vision turned upside-down upon repetition, only to be revealed within the windows of her soul that dare harbored these burdensome truths. Unearthly pale, neither flesh nor blood, a balletic dream sequence leaving one to wonder if she even existed at all in this reality that could barely paint her image within the unworthy vision of those that resided within the physical realm.

Oh darling little one, Weeping Willow of the North. For how those roots have long-been engrained into your phosphorescent husk. This too shall pass, or so you’ve told yourself so many times throughout these years you’ve begun to forget when it all started or if it will ever end.

“I–.. was left choking on the echoes of my own stars,” spoke she, the infinitesimal fae so very quietly to the Nothing that filled the void of her being, a now empty labyrinth once harboring a ghost of her past with eldritch clutches far more engrained than the eldest tree in the woods. A single hand rose, spidery digits curling inward as if to grasp at something not quite tangibly there upon the slow rise and fall of her bosom. Much had changed within the recent months for the Nymph, something she could not quite put her finger on. No matter how she dared, it was as if a tickling sensation coaxed the back of her mind, memory eluding to what exactly it was she wanted to remember. Deja vu and catatonic states became repetitious ritual, and the taste of once familiar words always dancing upon the tip of her tongue, yet no matter how she sang nor wove hymns into verse, nothing would feel the same.

Apparitions that had all long since forgotten their names took shape of cyan wisps to accompany her during these troubled times of longing and respite, and in return she bestowed them an epithet of their own which marked her canvas of alabastrine flesh. Faintly shimmering scars marked by her own clawed fingertips, her body the new pages of a grimoire much like the tattered old thing often seen by her side known as the original keeper of all her documented dreams and secrets. Ah, such a strange creature with a martyred personality flaw to bear these woes, barely hanging along the spool of thread of reality; a wandering phantasm herself, offering some semblance of eternal memory to those in need, unlike what could have been done for her in return.

Crystalline tears brimmed along the ducts of glassy hues, mirroring the moonlight in opalescent fluxes, before spilling in droplets that landed on an open-faced palm. A dulcet murmur escaped pursed petals, a secret susurration given to the tear that surely froze into a snowflake within the center of her daintily curled digits. Not long after the Nymph perched herself to be seated along her hip, a willowy limb then extended skyward sinuous and languid, bestowing a gift to the heavens for another star to piece together yet another constellation that told of the stories her heart could only, and the names of those long since lost of the world so that they could finally be remembered in some form or fashion. If not so, then perhaps only to her. A single star stood out from the rest; a bright glimmer of cool silver burning at the wake of the ethereal brush strokes of an aurora. Something akin to a guide, so to speak, centered right above the ruins of The Menagerie. It was here beneath its peak within the crystalline forest the gossamer fae reside, awaiting all who come in search of a place of belonging, or perhaps to bid idiosyncratic curiosity to be sated.

“Ahh, but now no longer…

S-So… then then let them come… and let us see what echoes ch-choke from the depths of their consciousness…”