Taciturn > Loquacious

Upon attempting to raze the mystic woods, the intrepid industrialists stumbled upon the Candorborn; dryads belonging to a fae-like society that worshipped harmony and their love of nature. An ultimatum was issued; surrender the mystic woods, or face total annihilation. The Candorborn were peace loving, but by no means were they pushovers. True to their namesake, they were stern with the industrialists. The Candorborn made it clear that the mystic woods belonged to them and they had no intention of watching their home transformed into fuel for the infernal machines. Yet to the industrialists, "no" was never an option. It was never even a consideration.

The war machines rolled up one day in the dead of winter. It was common knowledge that the bitter cold weakened a dryad's resolve, and this was taken full advantage of. However, the Candorborn were far from naïve and foresaw the return of the stubborn industrialists. Fighting through their frigid afflictions, the dryads churned up the frozen soils surrounding the mystic woods so when the industrialists brought their metal beasts and wrought iron warriors, they sank. The soldiers who survived the ambush abandoned their equipment in the muck and retreated, leaving nature to reclaim it all.

Their defeat would not stand. After licking their wounds, the industrialists devised a cunning plan. They'd poison the Candorborn. So they developed a virus- a bioweapon to wipe them all out. In the dead of night, an acrid fog sailed through the canopy of the mystic woods. Canisters filled with Death itself were catapulted from miles away, fumigating the very forest the Candorborn called home. What was green had now been painted a sickly shade of rusty brown. None were spared.

But the plan backfired. There was a fatal flaw in the bioweapon's formula. Somehow, the Candorborn were able to endure. The bioweapon didn't kill them, no... it changed them. Twisted their biology to embody rot and decay. No longer the Candorborn, the Lichora rose from the ashes and sought revenge on the industrialists.

Their victory was total. The battle was over the same day it began. Not even their finest warriors nor their brutal war machines could stop the legions of decay that swarmed from the old forests. They seized control and issued the industrialist leaders the same ultimatum they gave the Candorborn: surrender, or perish.

White flags shot up all at once. The city was theirs. But their work wasn't done. Having heard tales of the fallen city, neighboring armies saw fit to invade. Surely rotting dryads wouldn't put up much of a fight, and their civilizations could certainly make use of the resources the Lichora had just inherited. But the invasions would fail. It became clear to the Lichora that the industrial gears still turned elsewhere in the world; a global tilting of the scales away from harmony with nature. It was only a matter of time before more showed up.

So they extended their reach, divided, and conquered every last civilization in Zunah. Every living, breathing soul would know the Lichora's resilient might and fall under their total control. Their vengeance was exacted; Zunah was theirs. Its people would obey their every command, but... now what? After all that bloodshed, did the Lichora truly want to perpetuate the same cruelty they had been subjected to? Because they were peace-loving dryads at their core, all they ever wanted was harmony. And now they had the power to change the world- to realize their vision.

In the end, the Lichora chose kindness. The industrial machines were reworked to serve the people rather than oppress them. Society was organized to restore the world to its former beauty rather than pillage it for brutal glory. Everyone would have their needs seen to, regardless of circumstance. Everyone would be brought together. Horrible realities like hunger and war and loneliness became a distant memory. People... genuinely liked the Lichora. And their rule would persist uncontested for hundreds of years.

But then aliens invaded. From the heavens themselves descended war machines unlike any the world had ever seen, but by this time the battle-hardened Lichora had figured out how to properly defend themselves. The aliens were dispatched the same day they invaded. But then more arrived, and more, and more, falling time and time again. They just never stopped coming. The Lichora knew they would need to take to the stars if their world was to ever know peace again.

By persuading the invaders onto their side and reverse engineering their war machines, the Lichora were able to find the alien homeworld. They made it theirs. And connected to that homeworld were dozens of others; a whole galaxy of industrialists that were once again trying to expand into Lichora territory.

No more. One way or another, every planet would fall into the Lichora's fold. Every world would know peace; they had no choice. The Lichora would be proactive and stop the hand before it could strike, choosing instead to steady it.

To find the one who gives your life meaning? To trade your agency for purpose and meaning? To be relieved on the burden of thought so only stillness remains?

the doll that stares out the shop window all day, I mean. And I can't put my finger on it. Maybe it's the lazy eye staring sideways at the world, or perhaps it's the fact that the doll only has that one eye remaining. Maybe there was a day when its lips had gloss and its cheeks had color, but you'd never be able to tell from all the mucky scuffs that mar its face in way that's somehow fitting for it. A missing arm, a few missing fingers, a knee-joint that bends the wrong way... From a glance, you'd think it had always been like that, all ugly and unsettling. At least someone had the decency to cover its body in a dress that, despite its simplicity, is still way too nice for the doll.

It makes me wonder who would want such a wretched, broken thing. They'd be paying good money to throw away someone else's trash. Still, I could see a child making it the villain in a game of let's-pretend. It's easy to hate something so outwardly hideous. But I could also see a collector or hobbyist taking the time to fix it up. Cleaning it, giving it new parts, adding value to it before selling it off or leaving it in a box to collect dust- a smug reminder to themselves that they 'fixed' the doll. Made it 'better'. 'Changed' it to better suit their preference. And the doll has no choice but to let them. It can't say no.

But maybe the doll likes it there, in the shop window, watching the world go by. Maybe that doll wears every missing limb like a battle scar- a badge of honor that tells a story. Maybe its eye looks off to the side because it's tired of people grimacing at the sight of it.

What has it been through? What stories of love and loss has that lazy eye seen? How did the wind-up doll wind up forgotten by the world and everyone it held dear, the only attention it gets being gawks from the onlookers; pedestrians from which she averts her gaze?

Only it knows.

How long have we known each other, my darling? Just how many centuries have come to pass with you dutifully by my side and I, loyally by yours? All those nights we spent gazing at the stars, divining their meaning, giggling and blushing at everything those celestial diamonds had to tell us.

It was under midnight's glittery blanket that you confessed to me that you wanted to live forever. And I could tell just from the fire in your eyes that nothing would shake you from your ambition. My first instinct was to laugh at your naivety. An eternal existence was a burden- nay, a curse! Every witch worth their salt knows that; you knew not what you asked for. Yet reflected in the flame of your determined gaze was a twinkling night sky that offered all the reassurance I needed. 𝘐 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶. So I would help you achieve your dream, just as you would help me achieve mine, because it was under those same stars, in that very same beautiful moment, that I proposed to you as the weeping willows swayed.

And it was not long after that fateful night that your soul was committed to a sapphire band and placed within a new body; one that we made together and, like our bond, would never decay. And while shopping around for the pieces that would recompose the new you 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘯, I relished the parts we made ourselves. Your bright smile... your fiery eyes... nobody knew them better than me anyway. Sharing the joy of creation with you was what made your transformation so deeply profound.

Decades flew by in the blink of an eye, yet you remained pristine as ever. And yes, while we did replace the parts of you that needed replacing, you were always 𝘺𝘰𝘶 at your core. During my darkest hours, your fire- 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 kept me focused on what was important. You inspired me. You excited me. You made me crave the beauty of life so badly that I, lost in incoherent reverie, turned my yearning to the stars for a second opinion, but they only confirmed what my heart had been telling me all these years:

My place was by your side not until death, but until the end of time.

So I committed my soul to stone, and together we made the body that would release me from my mortal curse. All those warnings... every single cautionary tale about foolishly forsaking your humanity... was a lie. When every moment by your side is pure bliss, how could I not want to live forever? I will always have you turn my key, and you will always have me to turn yours. We will always return to that meadow by the willows to watch the stars, and though the world around us may change, the stars that connect us and the love we share remain the only constant we will ever need.

To be loved is to be changed. You are not what you once were.