I don't think I can actually say it's been a week at this point anymore. LMAO.
Lets see what Cylion is up to.
doc
--
Anger flashes across the mutantâs face so violently that it even manages to cause a ripple across the pupiless eye, illuminating it with barely contained rage. It is not hard to see the resemblance he has to his ancestor on a good day, but when he looms and twitches restlessly like he is only a half second away from losing it all together, well it is uncanny. Not that anyone was eager to voice that thought when he lets himself get whipped up into such a frenzy.
A much more articulate, calculating, monster pacing his kitchen as if to walk off his irritation, wings twitching and fluttering to communicate his mood when he turns to face away.
When he reaches the far end of the kitchen he turns again to fix his glare on the subject of his ire, the troll Weasel dug out from the belly of Kildeau in the early morning, just after dawn, and deposited at the foot of his bed.
The troll is silent, watching the yellow blood begin his trek back. It has been a mostly fruitless morning â He, for whatever reason, was resistant to giving up where Nymira could be found. Refused to even be a little bit helpful, as if staying loyal to Persep meant anything. It so clearly didnât. Weasel almost feels bad for the kid, though.
Evicted by Persep Lycaon.
Hunted by Dorili Duxile.
Menaced by Cylion Lefera.
Not a very enviable place to be by any stretch of the imagination, a terrible month to be this poor fuck he never even bothered to learn the name of. Naldis must have told him, but it slipped away. It didnât matter. Empathy stripped away by the larger swell of satisfaction of a successful hunt; he plucked the boy, his scent, the threads back to Persep practically from nothing. Heâd like to see Gracious do that.
 Cylion is already standing over him by the time Weasel is done patting himself on the back, a low growl ebbing away to leave room for him to speak.
Low. Gravel. Favionâs voice on Cylionâs lips.
âI am going to ask you just once moreââ
âHeâll kill me!â
âAnd I will not?â
Probably not, not from where Weasel is standing. Allied to the Roatus clan of all people? In the name of Nymira? The guilt would chew her up if she knew that someone died for her safe return, to say nothing of whatever self-righteousness Arkiro has hidden up his sleeves. Not that this trembling fool knew to poke any such holes in the logic, not even a sensible âAnd how will you find her if Iâm dead?â Just pursed lips, a desperate urge to get out from Cylionâs shadow.
âWhere is my sister?â He enunciates slowly, obviously doing his level best to not send a fist into a wall or perhaps a skull.
His quarry doesnât get the hint, though, shaking his head fervently. In an instant, any patience he had evaporated, Cylionâs hand shoots up to grab a fist full of hair.
âFine,â he grits, Weasel hardly noticed the glow of that pupiless eye intensifying until it became a brilliant, unignorable beam. âFine, fine.â
The troll whimpers softly in his grip, unable to tear his eyes off of the light, and then Cylion does something that surprises Weasel: He takes the conversation elsewhere. Somewhere he couldnât go. A waking nightmare if he had to hazard a guess.
â
Maybe not a waking nightmare in the traditional sense, but there is certainly something dreamlike about it. So unexpected that if Weasel was surprised, then Cylion himself is astonished as the world around the pair falls away. Though, he is still dimly aware of Weasel watching somewhere on his periphery, a muddling of light blue fog separating him from them. A forest of trees grows in between.
âWhatâŠWhat is this?â A meek, irritating whimper.
Cylion says nothing. Not for a while. Dreams when someone is asleep are one thing. A subject that is awake requires infinite more focus. The scene around them starts to come into a much sharper focus. The smell of long grass after rain, of leaves rustling in the wind, all fading in from nothing as he broadens his search, all the while the troll in his grasp squirms uncomfortably but cannot pry his attention away from the depths of that irregular eye. Lacks even the ability to shut his own to keep the depth from leering back at him. Into him.
âWhat are you doing?â He begs, scrabbling to get a good grip on the vice holding his head in place.
âShut up.â Cylion sneers, the scene wavers for a split second. The shape of Weasel, the dining table, the outline of his kitchen, a phantom among the trees for only a tick and then gone.
âIâll tell you! Please! Theyâre⊠TheyâreâŠâ The plea dies on his lips.
Again, Cylion is silent. This time a growl that turns into thunder all around them is all the reaction that pathetic display earns. Once he finds what heâs looking for, a wild grin spreads across his face. A hive, nondescript, really nothing special, looms high where once the entrance to the kitchen was. The recreation of the place was not intentional, but apparently rooting around for the details brings it to the forefront. A thrill rushes from his finger tips to his spine.
Having never navigated this aspect of his power before, the absolute control is almost enough to make him lose focus.
The dream flickers, solidifies again.
âYouâre â Youâre in my head!â
âMm. Did you know that dreaming helps with the organization of memories, emotions, and the like?â
A gasp, something overturned in the mind that makes the dreamer go rigid, then slack. The scent of lavender hangs in the air.
âThey are said to contain fragments of the waking world, influenced by the humdrum and day-to-day, a consolidation of it all. Snippets pulled from the long term.â
The dreamer winces.
âOr, being organized for the long term. Oneirology is a fickle science. Hard to pin.â Ah, there it is. âI have long wondered what so-called dreameaters, of legends of course, might actually subsist on.â
An empty stare back into his eyes, the smell of lavender so heavy now Cylion scrunches his nose at it.
âTell me. Where does Persep have my sister?â
âMy â Theyâre at my⊠He has plans for my hiveâŠâ
âMm. And where is that? Your hive?â
âI,â he shakes his head. âWhere⊠I live. ItâsâŠâ He doesnât know. He canât remember.
Cylionâs grin borders on the manic as he releases his hold of the dreamer, metaphysical and otherwise, watches him fall unceremoniously at his feet as the thicket of the forest fades back into the kitchen.
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(This'll go on my gitbook soon, but until then, here's a google doc!)
Expectation
She canât kill him. She canât escape. Nymira knows her options are dwindling.
Not for the first time, she feels her palm hovering towards the faint scar upon her throat, her other hand gripping the edge of the bed where she sits.Â
Fury edges out her fear. This is the fate Persep wants to escape. His conditional immortality.
The removal of his claws.
She flexes her hand, gaze drifting across her fingers as it has so many nights before. There are fates worse than death, dear Dreamer.
Nymiraâs gaze hardens, digits curling into a tight and angry fist.
There are fates worse than death.
~~~~
âShe wants the doll to try dreaming?â Cylion scoffs, barely trying to hide his disdain. Little Friend glares at him from its perch atop Archieâs palm, painted eyes narrowed in defiance.
âNo, not exactly,â the clown ventures, free hand scratching at his neck. âSâmore like⊠Sendinâ him back to hers.â
I wish, Cylion thinks, fighting off the scowl that tugs at his lips.
âHe comes from Nymiraâs head, sâwhat Finala was sayinâ. So he should be able to drop back in, dream logic nâ all that, yeah?â
âWe donât need him for that.â
âRight, cause you were just rarinâ to get in there yourself.â
Cylion bristles. They both know why he hasnât visited her yet. Even beyond the risk of Persep intercepting somehowââwhat the defunct prophet touted as his main concernââitâs obvious what heâs really afraid of.
That Nymira wouldnât have him.
Archie raises an eyebrow, lifting Little Friend as if in question.
Cylion sighs bitterly.Â
âFine.â
~~~~
âSomeoneâs cooperative today,â Persepâs voice infiltrates Nymiraâs thoughts with an audible grin, condescending and smug. The godling frowns in response, retreating further into herself as she tries to grasp at something fleeting.
She knows what heâs thinking. He believes that death, temporary as it was, has shaken her.
It has, to some extent. It would do so to anyone, she imagines. But Persep believes it has broken her. That she has lost the will to fight.
She facilitated that assumption herself, actually, ghosting about the hive in a near-catatonic state and shrinking away whenever he approached. Nymira has played the part he cast her in, and she has done so diligently.
She doesnât want him growing wise until itâs too late.
Until he gets exactly what he wished for.
~~~~
âCylion,â the witch greets him, smiling as she swipes a hair from her face.
He nods in response, gaze flashing briefly to her own pupil-less eye. It looks natural on her.
âIâm glad youâre here. I think youâll be a great help.â
He nods again as he sits, face tight.
Finala takes her seat opposite him, gently setting her fingertips on the table. Nymiraâs doll emerges from the greying locks that cover her shoulders, traipsing down her arm to stand at attention between the two trolls.
He keeps his back to Cylion, tiny head angled back to gaze up at the woman with something he imagines must be hope or reverence.Â
She guides Little Friend to lay down with a slow and delicate touch, and it glances warily at Cylion before allowing its face to take on the facsimile of sleep. Neither of them have forgotten how he chose to handle the thing when it was in his possession.
âJust try your best,â Finala instructs, fingers tracing a star-spattered sigil into the air. âGuide him to her.â
~~~~
Even Persepâs footsteps have become more confident, more arrogant. Nymira hears his passing through the haze of half-sleep, each tap roaring through her aching skull like thunder. She accomplished today something she had previously thought impossible.
A stale dream, something come and gone, found its way into her hands, plumbed from the depths of her mind and pulled into being with a process far longer than her usual. The artifact itself was nothing mystical, a pen much like those Marrie had gifted her just before her world caved in.Â
But she had dreamed it four nights ago.Â
Persep had been thrilled.
After testing thoroughly that the pen bore no special properties, he allowed her to keep it, a decision perhaps helped by the cautious way she held it, as if questioning whether this too could be used to end her if he so willed it.
Nymira knows she must fulfill her role to get her way. She learned that from a very young age.Â
She doesnât bother wishing that she had conjured something more conducive to escape. Itâs enough that it reminds her of Marrie. Of home.
Holding the pen to her cheek, she allows herself to drift, down, down, down through a twinkling sea of stars that widens and envelops her in a shifting, yawning light. She squints in the brightness of it, raising a hand to block her eyes and finding the motion completely ineffectual. Even when she closes them, she can see only a blinding, radiant white behind her lids.
With nothing else to do, she allows it to wash over her, gazing into the flare until at last shapes begin to form within it.
She sees herself in shaky silhouette, tail fanned open at her back. The light pours from it like a window, and Nymira tentatively unfurls her own. As it opens behind her, that incandescent light begins to fade, melting slowly into a soft, pulsing glow that blankets her like a veil.
The other figure dissolves into a faint and delicate warmth, shimmering particles floating towards her to collect around her palms. In a motion all at once familiar and alien, Nymira pulls her hands apart and focuses between them, drawing from a well within her that she, too, lies within.
A wave of vertigo rips through her, and she cannot tell whether she is spinning or still. When her vision is once again steady, it lands on a familiar figure cradled in her palms. Little Friend blinks as if waking up, then turns to gaze at his creator.
MAN, it's been one hell of a week. Hasn't it? Have a short one.
[doc]
--
âI didnât think you could disappoint me any more than you already do.â
The statement, punctuated by the familiar sound of his fatherâs teeth grinding against one another, carved a hole into reality that sucked all of the air out of the room.
Cylion said nothing, a tinnitus-like ringing the only thing he heard outside of the rush of the blood in his ears.
A gust of wind that made his face wings twitch irritably in its wake thankfully forced him to redirect his attention to the present.
Nothing about that evening was a welcome memory.
If he didnât know any better, he might have guessed that everything that happened that night stabbed out of the kitchen at that moment and planted itself into the recesses of his mind to be rediscovered perigees later. It was all a blur from the second the words fell from his fatherâs lips, the memories only growing more distant in the days that forced time between him and his ultimate blunder.
Even so long after, he couldnât will the image to his mind at all. It was only when he wished to be thinking about anything else at all, while strolling through the cloyingly chummy inner territory that belonged to the Restorer, did the memory force itself to the forefront of his mind. Maybe there was some symbolism there.
He definitely didnât want to consider that. Instead, Cylion skirted the edges of the vegetable garden that the doll â Marrie â spent much of her time in, trying in vain to shake the memory away.
The garden was vacant at least, with only the sproutlings of spring produce in their infancy to keep him company.
âMy SPROUT!â He thundered, advancing on Cylion to dig a claw into his shirt and lift him off of his feet.Â
Cylion didnât move, he didnât even wince when the fabric of his shirt stood little chance against the manhandling and a clean slice was carved into his flesh just under the collarbone. An angry paper cut that slowly painted his defunct priestly garb yellow.
Shellshocked mightâve been the word.
âYou mistreated my Sprout. You. Hurt. Her. And now Roatus,â his voice was distinctly softer on the Sprout and by the time it got to Roatus, it dripped with acid. âHas taken her away from me.â
âUs.â Cylion felt himself say, but it was hollow.
âMust I teach you to do everything? Pitiful thing. Speak up.â
âHe took her from us.â
Favion growled.
It was beginning to rain, a low thunder that rumbled between the clouds like an angry and monstrous god lie just behind them; warning the little things below to vacate.
Cylion sighed. Incapable of dreaming as he was, he was clearly not immune to the siren call of the maladaptive daydream.
Though, he wondered, is it a siren call if it was something that the sufferer wanted desperately to gain some distance from? Probably not, but he didnât want to dissect it. He wanted it to go away.
He turned his head up to watch the clouds crash against the previously blemishless sky, warring with the shine of the moons to cast the city into darkness.
Ailzea Roatus enjoyed rain immensely, he read that somewhere before, or maybe his father told it to him. As little as he spoke about their childhood together. So much did Roatus enjoy the rain that his congregation made a big deal of celebrating the first rain of a new season together.
Thanks to the Nymira-Persep situation, Cylion was there for that. Of course, he made himself scarce, lest he be guilty of some sort of sacrilege for having the audacity to join. Despite Archie having tried, for some reason, to invite him out into the courtyard for the festivities.
The light drizzle that started to paint the world around him was hardly worthy of a celebration. It made sense that he was alone on the fringes with only scraps to enjoy.
Though the rain was dismal at best, it dredged up that pleasant earthy scent that had a tendency to linger in the air in the warmer seasons.
âPetrichor,â he said to the open air as he moved in closer to admire the handiwork of the groundsâ gardeners.
A crack of lightning briefly brightened up the sky, illuminating the patches of radish sprouts he nearly trampled on in his aimlessness.
Crack! Cylionâs fist made contact with Favionâs face.
Heâd taken advantage of being lifted to his eyeline and punched him square in the jaw, reacting unthinkingly to the anger that swelled from his chest all the way to his ears and fists.
The sudden movement took Favion off guard and he dropped Cylion in his shock, grinding his jaw again. This time no doubt in an attempt to get it working again.
Another growl assaulted the silence. He couldnât tell whose chest it rattled out from.
Then he was swinging blindly in his rage. Another punch, this one in the chest, brought the behemoth to his knees. When they were eyelevel again, Cylion swung hard at his temple.
Favion tried to grab at his wrist, but he just swung and hit him from the other side.
Before he knew it, before his thoughts caught up to him, his ancestor was on the floor and bloodied.
âUs! She was taken from us! What claim did you have over her when we were the ones taking care of her?â
Something crunched under his fists, but he didnât stop.
The garden was well taken care of, just like everything else on the grounds. How could this place exist on Alternia? Even just outside the steps of the church itself bad things, terrible things, happened, nevermind the rest of the planet. Did it really come down to Ailzea Roatus?
Cylion couldnât fathom what was so special about him, he could sift through the sweeps worth of dreams heâd stolen from the patron for the rest of his life and still never come to the answer. Special enough for the Reverend to force into this life, for his own ancestor to stick around despite being killed by him at least twice. It couldnât all boil down to his ability to take and return life.
He found cover beneath an overhang that jutted out of the side of a shed and watched the rain as it started to pick up, quickly saturating the soil as it struck. Out of nowhere, a pang of guilt struck him in the chest.
There he was just admiring nature while God knew what was happening to his sister. It was difficult to breathe around the idea. Persep Lycaon had his sister, and he was hellbent on doing what with her? Could he really force her into the mold that Cylion had a hand in building for her? It probably wouldnât have been possible if he didnât just follow orders like a good little soldier.
He rubbed a hand over his face and pulled away to find that it was wet, but before he could question whether it was from the rain or tears he didnât realize were falling, the sound of squeaking drew his attention in the direction of the door to the shed.
It could have been a squeak, or maybe it was a hiccup, all Cylion knew was that the sound pulled him back into his mind â He was standing over his father, covered in his blood, and taking big heaving breaths. Beneath him, Favion was still, save for the occasional ragged breath that said that he was alive.
The source of the sound was Somnia, standing in the doorway to his bedroom with panic painted all over his face. He didnât need to have pupils for it to be obvious that his gaze was trained on Cylionâs still balled fist, their fatherâs shirt gripped tightly in the other hand.
Anger thrummed all through him now, louder and louder. He could find out, once and for all, what the limits of this beast of a manâs mortality was. Give him back what heâd doled out for decades. Find out if he knew how to beg for a life that was over centuries ago. But Somnia was watching, unmoving, his big brother manhandle his father. Hesitant to make another sound.
Cylion already lost Nymira. Passed right through his fingers. He would lose Somnia the same way. Abruptly, he released his hold, not breaking his concentration on his little brother.
âIâm sorry.â He said after figuring out how to make his voice level, and stood up straight. âCan you clean him up?â
Somnia only nodded, stepping out of the doorway to collect their bloodied father from the floor.
Someone stepped out of the shed and was walking toward him, carrying a shovel and spade in each gloved hand. Sunflower printed, because of course they were. Just like her dress was.
Marrie Roatus.
âOh! Sorry, did I scare you?â She asked, because he bristled.
âNo,â he said, because that wasnât it at all and they both knew it. âBit wet out for gardening.â
âItâs good to move the soil and tease out the invasives while the soil is wet, actually! I was hoping to get to it before the rain got really bad. I think I can still swing it!â
Cylion nodded, turned his attention back to the garden.
Silence settled between the pair, save for the sound of the rain hitting the roof of the shed and ground.
âI can go.â He finally said.
âWhy would you do that?â She beamed brightly, instantly striking the gloom of the evening out of the air. âDonât you think youâd be happier giving me a hand?â
There was no helping that he cracked a small smile at the insistence in her voice. He wondered what that quality looked like when faced up to Nymiraâs stubbornness.
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