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@anonbeadraws / anonbeadraws.tumblr.com

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‘It was strange to see herself lifeless, especially when she already considered this part of herself dead. The imposter’s likeness had been so familiar, down to the scars across her collarbone, the point of her still intact ears, and the careful twisted knot of her hair. This was who she had been. It was no surprise to her that even those who knew her best, those who loved or hated her, had believed this disguise.    But this was not who Lucya Kenier Xilfaren was now. This was not Life. This was not Agatha’s Successor. This was not the Rogue Reaper.   This was Serhar Kenier’s daughter. Which she was not. And this was Maryath Xilfaren’s daughter. Of all the pieces that had to remain of who she was before, of course her mother’s legacy continued to suffocate her. She kicked the body over and its cloak covered its battle-marred form. A sense of relief settled over her for a moment, knowing that she had defeated the creature that had almost marched her people to ruin.  Her people. What was left of them. Those who weren’t under the boot of a brutal tyrant she had once proudly called her teacher.  They were lied to by her, by Heldya. And before they had been lied to by Maryath. Even still they were being lied to by the Raven Mother, though they did not know it. If there was anything left in her life that Lucya believed she could still understand, it was the depth of the deception these women perpetuated, and the ache that came with every further betrayal. And so, she turned to face all of them, the colosseum of refugees waiting with baited breath, hoping to know that some sort of end was coming to their pain, and she told them the only thing she thought could bring them solace.” Illustration commission for @eyesofthesunflower of Lucya, overcoming her doppleganger from their original story, The Raven's Destiny (the excerpt above is from it!)

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Nephele was born hungry, in many respects. Orphaned early and adopted late, her drow heritage apparently a draw back for those apparently so desperate for a child to love, she was eventually taken in at the age of 13 by a crotchety old halfling woman named Melda.       Her children were grown and had left home years ago, all travellers and adventurers and Melda was happy to take in, as the carers had told her, sat at their tall desks with their religious wimples and holier than thou smiles, a homebody who preferred to stay in and read. Not an interesting child, they intoned, but certainly an easy one.      Melda thought she could deal with that, something quiet after her rowdy brood, someone gentle and sweet who she could feed up and teach her great grandmothers knitting secrets to. Someone she could talk to, after her beloved’s passing. Melda would be happy on only one account she came to find, since her new charge seemed to be a bottomless pit, forever hungry for such new delights, pastries and roasted meats and fruits, the likes she had never seen at the Home.    (This of course, endeared her to her new halfing community, even the ones who cast second looks at her indigo skin and strange eyes and whispered of bad luck, would admit that anyone who could eat a blueberry pie with such ectasy in their eyes, no matter the colour, could not be so terrible)    Otherwise, the only other hunger the silent Nephele seemed to have was for books. Anything, everything, romantic novels, pamphlets left by passing adventurers, even dusty old tomes on family history which were not particularly sparkling material (though you’d have to drag that out of any self respecting halfing with the wildest of horses of course) and it was with books that Melda noticed her strange, quiet, charge came alive.     It took a while for it to happen (and much coaxing with home made biscuits and the odd apple turnover) but as the months passed, Melda’s quiet table, lined with empty chairs that only sat two now, sat also discussions of whatever Nephele had dug her nose into. Melda had never seen such excitement at the idea of learning, especially from her own children, and decided to encourage it the best she could. she began sending off for books and tomes unavailable to their village and when Nephele grew old enough and her interest turned to the magical, determined letters to the local wizard, a human woman who’d moved to the forest long ago, before Melda’s time.      Not a popular creature certainly, Melda had considered as she sent the letters off, and definitely someone the halfings avoided, but neither was her own child and even if it was someone older, outside of the community, it would good to see her girl make her first friend.

Sori was as strange as Melda had predicted, twitchy and wide eyed and clueless about how to drink tea politely, but intrigued to take on an assistant.  "You’ve taught her so much!", Sori exclaimed, crumbling more shortbread into her half full cup. “her affinity with language and its connection to magic is amazing, I’ve never seen the like in someone so young!”   Melda, who could not even spell her own name, only nodded sagely, subtly moved the shortbread out of reach of the wizard who drank half liquid biscuit from her cup, and made arrangements for further lessons. She could easily see the good the lessons were doing, the excitement and satisfaction they brought the girl.      Melda felt a little pain that she could not bring such glee to her child's face anymore, for how could apple tarts contend with the ability to create flame and ice on command? How could she, an old halfing even compare with a wizard, albeit a strange one, who taught her child to create her own spells, to blend old spells together to create something new? It was a little pain.   Manageable. It was more painful, as the years went by, to see her child withdraw, to go into herself. Research and books and scrolls, Nepheles room became a library, not that she was around often enough to enjoy in it. Nephele’s visits to Sori became longer as the months go by, she’d be gone for days at a time, on little errands for the wizard.    It’s just assistant stuff, Nephele would shrug, stuffing her bag for another journey, grabbing a pastry before she vanished again and kissing her mother absently goodbye.     She was a young woman now, Melda mourned as she tidied around her child's room, edging carefully around each symbol and scrawl. Of age and able to do what she wanted. It had only been when Melda had not heard from Nephela for many weeks, far longer than her usual stints away and found her letters ignored by the wizard, that she gathered up the courage to visit Sora and get some answers.Melda had expected something perhaps older, maybe a cottage taken over by vines and dirty plates and books, something broken down and as scattered as the wizard herself. Maybe some awkwardly offered beverage that Melda would politely take and never drink. Melda had brought some nibbles, hoping that would make the wizard open up to telling her what was happening with her little one.   She didn’t expect destruction. Not fire and flame and the woods around them burning and whatever had remained of Sori’s home blackened and charred, the smell of brimstone, terrible and unavoidable, the ashes of books floating everywhere.  Not Sori, severely shaken but not a scratch on her, not even a burn, shaking and shivering in the middle of the wreckage, stuttering that it ‘was all gone’.   It took a few hours for Sori to calm down, safe in the house Melda seemed to live alone in most days, and tell her something useful. To tell her that Nephele had been sent on errands yes, that they were to do with magic, yes. But not the simple fetching assignments Melda had been led to believe, not simple ingredients or herbs attained in the local forests or as far as the next village as Nephele had so often reassured her mother.    She had been sent out to steal. Not real stealing! Sori had pleaded under placating hands as Melda had begun to ratchet up her good yelling voice (which had terrified generations at this point).  Nephele had been sent to old places, ruins, to find old spells, abandoned by the uncaring and unwilling. Nothing bad, just the recovery of magic. The two of them had carefully planned out the areas, finding resources to ascertain the safety of the journey and what kind of magic lay behind locked and ancient doors. Nephele had found this one on her own, whispers from distant mouths, a great power, something life changing and she was so desperate to find it.   Oh my girl, Melda thought, her heart heavy, my hungry girl. With reservations, but a hunger of her own, Sori had let her go, pack full and had begun preparations to translate whatever her protege brought back. It would be a while but it didn’t hurt to be prepared.  Sori was sorely unprepared for what was brought however. It had been quick, (the time it took for a wooden cottage to set alight, Sori mused aloud at Melda’s dining table.) and Sori only understood a little of it but what she did know, was that her protege had burst into the house, not with her usual glee and delight of a job well done, but with some fear and a strange determination Sori had never seen in Nephele’s eyes before.   That. And a demon. It seemed that the job had been far more dangerous than they could’ve imagined. That Nephele, though quick and clever enough to avoid the traps and puzzles inside, had made a great mistake. That some power, even those lost and fabled underground, should not be tampered with and that sometimes, even if a voice  whispers and promises knowledge beyond ones wildest dreams, that perhaps one shouldn’t say ‘yes’.   Or perhaps, they shouldn’t say yes, then immediately bail out of the agreement upon grabbing the scroll and running for their lives back home, with a fiery demon at their heels.    Sori had only seen Nephele for an instant, long enough for her to see the scroll, see the demon and to see her protege cast a spell-  (Sori had smiled a little, relaying this back to Melda. It was one of ours, our best protection spell! she did so beautifully!) and then vanish, the demon with her. Melda took Sori in, though it took a week and several pitiful attempts at shortbread for Melda’s stoney glare to soften and her anger to abate. It didn’t help Melda’s standing in the village to do so, not even her blueberry muffins would be enough to undo the rumours that floated around her child or the strangeness of her current houseguest, but as Melda settled down to sleep, she knew it was the right thing.  Even if the reason for her child’s disappearance was sleeping just down the hall. Even if the house was empty again. Even if her heart was too. And if her heart, hungry for her daughter, for her safety, imagined her little ones voice again, strangely clear and certain, just as her mind turned towards the blissful void 'mamon. I’m safe but running. Sorry. Will find a way to fix it. love you” perhaps that was right too. a random roll for @pathcrier, who designed most of the character but wanted me to take a spin at the backstory! This is one of my longer bgs for sure, but so fun! THANKYOU HUN

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