the darkest part of the woods; advanced roleplay discussion
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winter's rose ~ wrote: "@adeline ~ APPROVED! from what i can tell, he looks good to go! once Crow returns, i can double check since you had mentioned other countries and such (i really have no idea what i'm doing haha!..."
Glad you like him! He really just needs a friend and a big hug...
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I am especially intrigued AIN, since as I've been away I've been creating a more cohesive and indepth story "lore" and she happens to fit into some ideas I have quite well
Andromache Lytherion Feridor - Lady of the Woodland - Part OneName: Andromache Celandine Sybilla Lytherion Feridor
Nicknames: Andra, Lily, Butterfly
True Name: Adara
Physical Age: 21
Actual Age: 1,749
Gender: F
Species: Fae
Court: Spring
Title: Lady Feridor, Lady of the Woodland
Appearance: Andromache’s thick, golden blonde hair falls in natural, loose curls all the way down to her hips. Vibrant roses, lilies, orchids, tulips, daisies, and a variety of other resplendent flowers are often braided or entwined into her tresses, and other times streams of gold and silver are threaded through her curls, making them gleam and sparkle in sunlight. Almost always a few of her radiant locks of hair are braided into a crown just above her forehead, and she adorns it with pearls, flowers, pretty ribbons, or other decorations. Her enchanting, serene eyes contain every shade of blue in the rainbow with a miniscule ring of ice blue around the pupils, cerulean in the middle, and faint tinges of indigo around the edges. Her skin is soft as satin and as fair as ivory, and not a single freckle nor blemish mars her velvety face. Gentle, dark lashes extend from her eyelids, and her delicate nose curves up just a tad at the end. She has a slender forehead, high cheekbones, a dainty, smooth chin, softly arching eyebrows, petite ears, alluring, rosebud lips, and perfect, pearl white teeth. Her neck is elegant and elongated, giving way to slim shoulders and a smooth back. Miniature butterfly wings of teal and gold are attached to her lower back, and two, matching pairs are hidden at the backs of her ankles. Together, all three pairs allow to her fly several feet above the ground, but she must enlist the aid of magic or enchantments to float any higher. She is blessed with a lovely, mid-sized bosom and ravishing curves, and her graceful legs are slightly longer than her torso and serve to grant her flawless carriage. Her hands, ankles, and feet are miniature and delicate, even for a fae woman of her size, and she possesses no birthmarks or tattoos.
Andra prefers understated but elegant clothing made of the finest silk, satin, or gossamer in colors of gold, turquoise, lavender, cerulean, mauve, spring green, dove gray, and other shades of these colors for public appearances. Her dresses fall to her ankles or to the floor, and her most formal gowns have trains of varying lengths. Pearls, gossamer shawls, nature-inspired jewelry, flowers, and hair combs are her favorite accessories, and though she prefers to be barefoot, she wears delicate heels and flats when appropriate. In the privacy of her own home, she wears plainer dresses in neutral colors, mostly grays and blacks, and dons minimal jewelry. When receiving guests, attending court, or visiting friends, she wears her more colorful gowns and adorns herself with the proper amount of jewelry and finery as it would not do to let on that she is still in mourning.
Personality: Andromache has matured into a graceful and virtuous lady due to her seclusion through adolescence and thorough studies in literature and etiquette. In all things, she remains dignified, poised, and humble, receiving both compliments and insults with an unfaltering smile. She possesses a generous spirit and is unusually un-materialistic for a fae. While she enjoys the luxury she lives in, she would be just as happy without it and will gladly sacrifice her own comfort to aid someone else, especially children whether fae or mortal. Generosity is one of her greatest virtues, and she touches all those around her with gentleness and mercy, including people who hate her or spend their time maligning her. Of course some of the more malicious things people say to her wound her deeply (especially when they mock her for clinging on to a fraying thread of hope for decades), but she knows she must keep a cheerful countenance and torment her enemies with kindness instead of returning their slights with derision of her own. She must rise above the depths her enemies fall to in order to hurt her. She is the Lady of the Woodland, representing beauty, light, innocence, growth, peace, fertility, and rebirth, and as such, she is held to some of the highest standards in the Spring Court.
Lazy is not oft a word used to describe Andra. Despite the fact that many of her noble peers spend their days frivolously, Andromache fills hers with purpose. Since she cannot craft anything as a fae, she compensates any humans who sew clothes or otherwise aid the poor with money or enchantments, and she devotes portions of her days organizing charities and planning parties and springtime festivals for her peers to raise funds for the many charities she’s volunteered her time and efforts to. After spending much of her youth confined to her family’s manor, she aims to be as busy as possible, and she cannot bear to be idle for long lest she risk a flood of emotions washing over her and incapacitating her.
Although she is meant to be a ray of hope, renewal, and redemption, Andra’s steps have been haunted by grief for many centuries. She hides it well under a layered mask of vitality and cordiality, but in truth, she doesn’t genuinely feel much like half the things she’s supposed to be and represent. Public appearances and parties exhaust her, and some days it’s just too difficult for her to even dress herself properly, meaning she opts to seclude herself in her rooms and read and weep instead of fulfilling her many duties and commitments. In recent centuries, she’s made arrangements to do as much of her work as possible in the quiet confines of her own home to accommodate for the unpredictable days when depression, grief, and loneliness engulf and overwhelm her to the point of incapacitation. The irony of being a symbol of fertility but having no children of her own has devastated her, but her enduring love for her long-lost husband prevents her from growing to love another or even entertaining the thought of moving on and remarrying. Since there seems to be no cure for her miserable loneliness, she tries to keep busy as much as she possibly can to keep from thinking on her horrid situation, but eventually she burns and crashes and has to spend a couple of days recuperating and crying what she can out of her system.
Family:
Parents: Verrill and Elora Lytherion
Siblings: Adonia Lytherion Haveritte, Nikolos Haveritte (in-law), Galatea Lytherion Meroue, Petryn Meroue (in-law), Laomedon Lytherion, Retsina Lytherion (in-law), Calligenia Lytherion, Arien Lytherion, Marpesia Lytherion, Cyrus Lytherion, and Idalia Lytherion
Husband: Eitan Ravel Baer Eothir Feridor
Nieces and Nephews: Cathair Haveritte, Andor Lytherion, Lucine Haveritte, Leora Lytherion, and Medore Meroue
History: Named after her grandmother (the first Lady Andromache Lytherion), Andromache was the fifth child born to her parents. As the daughter of an illustrious noble family, no door nor avenue was closed off to her, and her every need, whim, and fancy was fulfilled promptly. Did she want to learn to play the flute? Here was one of the most accomplished flautists in the land to instruct her. Wherever she went, fae and mortals alike praised her virtue and admired her beauty, paying her and her family the respects they were due. All through her childhood, she saw more of nursemaids, servants, and tutors than she did her parents. The times she did see her parents were often from afar at parties and other gatherings where she and her young siblings were always under the watchful eyes of their governess, expected to be on their best behavior and, above all, seen and not heard. Being born with a silver spoon in her mouth had its upsides, but there were definitely drawbacks as well.
While she had little contact with her mother in her younger years, her eldest sister, Adonia, cared for her in a motherly way like she did all the siblings, and Andra grew to love and respect her more and more as the years passed sluggishly by. Ever the prim lady, Adonia often advised her on what to wear and say, but she was also quick to praise and reward good behavior in her siblings with treats and kind words. The next sibling, Galatea followed dutifully in Adonia’s footsteps, though she had a penchant for mischief and merriment and was often scolded for speaking too forwardly or indulging in spiced wine and dancing late into the night at balls and parties. Andra rather enjoyed attending social events with Galatea or just being by her side in general, for even the most dull and dreary days cooped up inside their adjoining quarters could be transformed into silly and cheery hours passing all too quickly by when Galatea was around.
After Galatea came Laomedon, the oldest boy. Andra rather envied him and Adonia for being the siblings that saw the most of their parents, but she found it hard to hold that against either of them. Laomedon was always seeking adventure and didn’t have to be asked twice to join in whatever plans Galatea had concocted for the day. As the eldest son, he took care to maintain a proper public image of dignity and sophistication, but behind closed doors with Andra and the rest, he was among the most raucous and vivacious of them all and flirted shamelessly with the maids. Whenever they held grand “balls” of their own, he danced with every sister, even convincing Adonia to leave the piano once or twice and waltz across the floor of their sitting room with him.
Born just before Andromache, Calligenia was the next sibling in line and was considered one of the great beauties of the family. She was more timid than Galatea and Laomedon, but she did not lack cheer and energy. Being one of the more thoughtful and articulate siblings, she and Galatea often wrote, choreographed, and staged plays and songs for the siblings to practice on slow days. Adonia could be persuaded to compose and play music on the piano, flute, harp, or cello, and Calligenia would write the lyrics and poetry, collaborating with Galatea to invent the characters and create their lines. Galatea was usually in charge of wardrobes and costume design since she had impeccable taste and an eye for fashion, and because Andra had a similar knack, she selected the fabrics and ordered the designs herself.
Arien was after Andromache, and she quite liked his diligent and caring nature. Because he was her first younger sibling, he received much of her doting attention, and she could be found entertaining him with toys, music, and books most of the time when he was a small child. He turned out to be very resourceful, the type of person who could make something out of nothing, and was typically tasked with finding things around the house they could use for props and sets for Galatea and Calligenia’s theatrical endeavors. Although they did not need to go to all this trouble themselves to put on extravagant productions for their own entertainment as they had a multitude of servants and no shortage of coin to buy pretty trifles and other things, Galatea insisted they do as much as they could themselves, for it helped to pass the time and served as a glorious distraction from monotonous lessons and days confined to their chambers. Besides, there was nothing quite like sipping at steaming tea and enjoying delicate pastries while Adonia could be heard composing on piano and Galatea and Calligenia scolded Laomedon for distracting everyone from their tasks. Andra like to watch the flurry of activity around their private, little sitting room during these times as she practiced her lines or helped pick out the fabrics for the costumes. Truly Galatea’s little distractions were the highlights of her days.
Andromache Lytherion Feridor - Lady of the Woodland - Part TwoHistory cont'd: After Arien came Marpesia. With proper instruction, she developed one of the most beautiful yet haunting singing voices Andromache had ever heard, and she was as gentle and sweet as her voice. Also she was gifted with an extensive knowledge of art, so in addition to being pestered into lead singing roles by Galatea, she secured various tapestries from around the house for backdrops. Cyrus was the youngest boy, and his impulsivity paired horrifically with Laomedon’s rollicking about. It took all Andra and Adonia had to rein him in at times, but his enthusiasm was soon put to better use once he was old enough to participate in the siblings’ thespian enterprises. The youngest was Idalia, and being the last born, she was slightly more spoilt than the rest of them, though none of them minded terribly. Her spirit rivaled Galatea and Laomedon’s, but there was hardly anyone who could resist her innocent charm and dainty features. Since she dearly loved to dance, Galatea oft choreographed special scenes just for her in their plays.
As Andromache grew older, she was allowed to leave her quarters more often and join her parents at gatherings and tea. To maintain her and her sisters’ virtues, her parents kept them restricted to the manor except for attending parties, family, and events most of the time, but now that she was steadily approaching the year she came of age, it was time for her to be more visible in the public eye. Adonia had been the first of them to marry, wedding a high noble just a few months earlier, and Andra knew her parents had been seeking a suitable match for Laomedon for some time now. Someday it would be her turn, but for now she was content to live a life of freedom like Galatea before it was all stripped from her upon an engagement. She was not as outgoing as her older sister, but she did enjoy socializing and dancing at parties and sometimes a little harmless flirting. Had she known just how soon her status as an eligible, young lady would change, she might have allowed a gentleman or two to court her or stayed out much later into the night with Galatea and Calligenia.
When she was less than a decade until her coming of age, the Lytherion manor received a visitor. Andromache did not know him, but the servants dressed her and her sisters still at home into some of their finest gowns, washed and styled their hair elegantly, and adorned them in resplendent jewelry. Andromache, Galatea, Calligenia, Marpesia, and Idalia all gracefully glided down the staircase to meet the visitor, a Mr. Eitan as he was introduced. He stayed for dinner and dessert and afterwards was led to the drawing room where Marpesia entertained him with a ballad while Andromache accompanied her on piano. Andra expected Eitan to be under her sister’s spell like all who heard her seemed to be, but she felt his eyes on her as her fingers gently stroked the keys to intertwine melodies and themes in bewitching harmony, lowering her lashes and praying that her cheeks did not blush and betray her. Andromache heard little about their mysterious visitor after he left, but one afternoon she was summoned to appear before her parents and wearing one of her delicate, summer gowns, curtsied before her strangely elated parents. They informed her that long ago, they had requested a blessing from the old Lord and Lady of the Woodland and that they had promised to return the favor someday. When the former nobles passed on, their only son inherited the title and now was searching for a suitable bride, a faery fair to gaze upon, gracious and pleasant in manner, and skilled in domestic arts. This lord was the Mr. Eitan who had paid them a visit that one night, and to hold up their end of the bargain with his family, Andra’s parents had offered him his choice of their unwed daughters, though the nobleman had insisted they not know whom he truly was when he first met them so that they would be sincere and not intimidated by his rank. He had sent a letter of his choice a few days later, and the past couple weeks had been spent negotiating the dowry and wedding and other such things. Andromache as astonished; she had not known Mr. Eitan was the Woodland Lord. Surely he had chosen Galatea or Calligenia. Galatea was such joyous company and lovely too, and Calligenia was the most beautiful of the sisters and could weave mere words into gold and treasures invaluable. To her surprise, her beaming mother told her that Lord Eitan had chosen her to be his bride and queen. She nearly fainted at the news, so sudden and strong was her shock, but quickly she composed herself, thinking that now she must never lose her poise as a future Lady of the Woodland. She had hoped for love and romance before engagement, but now that was forbidden. She must wait patiently and chastely until her coming of age when she would wed her fiancé, though naturally she must not expect to see him often as he had his own responsibilities and duties.
The years drudged on, and though sometimes things seemed unbearable, Andromache was thankful that she was afforded so much time to prepare herself for her future. Galatea and Calligenia authored plays as always to help pass the time, and Andromache participated when she wasn’t too preoccupied learning all about her new position and future husband. There were so many people and places to know and ever so much more history to memorize since she would be expected to know the Feridor family history as thoroughly as she knew her own.. Finally, her wedding day arrived, and nervously but hopefully, she said her vows and sealed her fate with a kiss from her bridegroom.
She had never visited her new husband’s home before, but it was more wondrous than any dream Marpesia’s sponsored artists could have painted with a brush. The manor was placed on the edge of a verdant forest lush with blossoming flora and magnificent creatures. Hills, valleys, and streams stretched out on the other side of the manor, and though there were countless luxuries indoors awaiting her, Andra best liked to spend her time among the deer, rabbits, songbirds, and other animals as they seemed to take an instant liking to her. As Eitan’s wife, Andromache never wanted for anything, and she quickly adapted to her new home, learning the layout of the manor and of the forest sprawling out beyond. She made the acquaintances of countless other lords and ladies in the Spring Court and was again infinitely grateful that she had been blessed with the luxury of time to learn all the various titles before she had been wed. In her husband, she was also fortunate. Eitan was attentive to her every want, and though he expected her to leave financial matters to him, he answered her questions patiently and sometimes listened to her counsel. Formality between them gave way to fondness, and eventually Andra fell deeply in love with him, although she was uncertain if he returned her feelings or not.
Harrowed by matters of state and politics as of late, Eitan dispatched a message to Andromache, telling her to join him in his private chambers for supper and dress accordingly. There had been little time to spend with her recently, but he relayed the hope that this would help make up for it in his message. Dinner was lovely, and the rest of the evening even lovelier. But when she awoke, Andromache was disappointed to find him gone and returned to her chambers for the day, dictating letters and planning the menu for a ball that was to be held at the manor next week. Little did she know that last night was the last time she would see her husband, perhaps forever.
When the news reached her of Eitan’s disappearance, discreet search parties were sent out as Andromache deemed it unwise to alert everyone that he was missing just yet, but as no sign of him surfaced, she had to formally declare him missing, her heart heavy. Once it became apparent that the search was ultimately futile and that Eitan might never return, Andromache, deeply sorrowful, became the widowed Lady of the Woodland. She had little need of anyone’s help to take on Eitan’s responsibilities since she had become familiar with them over the years they’d been married, and the distraction of sorting through everything and learning how to take on his duties provided a welcome relief from her sorrow in the first year after his disappearance.
In the first year without Eitan, Andra’s eldest sister gave birth to her first child, a son named Cathair Haveritte, and Andromache was ever so pleased to attend the babe’s christening and to be his godmother alongside her younger brother Arien as godfather. Adonia and her husband, Nikolos, had spared no expense on the reception, and Andra had to admit that she enjoyed herself a little, though it did sting her that she had no children of her own yet. More good news followed that year. Laomedon married a high noble, Retsina, and Galatea married several months later to a slightly lower ranking noble, Petryn Meroue. Andromache attended both ceremonies, though it was a bit of a struggle to keep a cordial and joyful manner as remembrances of her own wedding and brief marriage threatened to overwhelm her. Still, she was happy that two more of her older siblings were now married and could build their own lives. Adonia bore a second child shortly after the Galatea’s wedding and named her daughter Lucine. Andromache dutifully appeared at her niece’s christening and reception and did the same for the births of Laomedon’s children, Andor and Leora, as well as Galatea’s daughter, Medore, over the next several years. Her yearning for children to call her own never ceased nor diminished, but she simply could not bear to marry another or take a lover even after these past, several years.
One afternoon many years later, she was at a celebration for the spring equinox that she had helped to organize, and a few of the fae had put on a pageant in honor of the holiday. The star of the performance was a young, fae girl with an enchanting singing voice that distantly reminded Andromache of her younger sister, Marpesia. Also with the girl was a boy who looked to be her brother and had a lovely singing voice as well. After the performance concluded, Andromache applauded and threw a handful of flowers and coins at the performers’ feet in gratitude and proceeded to dispatch a servant to find out who the two children were. When the servant returned, he informed her that they were orphans, and it so saddened Andra to think of the poor, motherless and fatherless children that she sent for them immediately, disembarking from her litter. She cared not that everyone could see her taking in interest in these children, and besides, the streets were so crowded with people there to celebrate the equinox it was noisy enough. Three children appeared before her; one of them apparently looked after the two that had performed for her. After asking their names and ages (to which they told her their names were Evangeline and Asa), she invited them to come live with her as her wards in the manor, her heart overflowing with a joy she had not known for a long time when they accepted. Delighted beyond words, Andromache declined to ride the rest of the way home in her litter and walked amidst her servants and guards with the two children, waving and smiling at all the Spring fae and humans who were enjoying themselves at the revel.
Andromache Lytherion Feridor - Lady of the Woodland - Part ThreeHistory cont'd: Once she arrived home with her new wards, she ordered that chambers be made ready for them as fine as if they were her own children and set about finding a tutor to instruct them in etiquette and a seamstress to make them suitable clothing immediately. She adored doting on the two of them every chance she got, and though sometimes matters of the estate took up her time and attention, she always made sure to send them some trifle or other or to arrange an outing for them to make up for her absence. Even though they were not her own children, they were close enough, and they brought happiness and laughter back to her days at the castle.
Other: Andromache is accomplished on the piano and violin, and she is skilled in various domestic arts.
She loves children more than anything in the world, never turns down the opportunity to dote on others' children and always accepts when asked to be godmother to someone's child since she lacks her own.
Secretly she still mourns after her husband and is holding out hope that he is out there somewhere. She is determined to wait for him forever, though there is pressure on her to remarry and provide an heir to her title.Additionally, she refuses to engage even in harmless flirtation with other fae and is quick to spurn any suitors or advancements made by her peers, though as an influential lady with no children to inherit her title she is a very enticing marriage prospect.
└─── SIRICHE | AN T-ACRAS GEUR
Lord of the Northern Isles
Age Unknown | Male | Pan | 29 April
─── PERSONALITYSIRICHE'S A BIT OF A BASTARD. Just a little bit - he's all sly glances and wide smirks, teasing words and light jests. Maybe sometimes his joking insults hit a little too close to home. Nobody faults him for it, nor does anyone hate him for it. How could they? He's such a lovely guy, all fun and games, magnificent like a storm tearing through the sky, stealing the air from your lungs and leaving you all breathless and wide eyed afterward, longing for more.
Then again, there is never anything to fault, even if his words turn harsh and sharp like jagged blades to a point where they can't be ignored. For all his intensity, there is never a lie to be found; a quality characteristic of all fae, but he is on an entirely new level. If the situation calls for him to be incredibly petty, he can be so literal such that if someone asked him to "tell me the truth", he would say "the truth", and go on with his day. Anyone challenging him is welcome to a heated linguistical debate; a futile endeavor, because suffice to say, he is always in the right.
Of course, to even have a little taste of the walking beautiful disaster that is Siriche, one would have to find him first. Elusive as the tail of a dream disappearing with the sun as the dawn rises, nobody ever locates him with the intention of finding him. It is he who finds you. And even then, it's difficult to say how long he will stay - just as difficult as it is to say what he will do. His volatility is what sets hearts aflutter and blood arush. Many who meet him aren't even sure if they've truly met him; they only remember a sweet, iridescent dream, and a gentle touch along their skin, trailing fire.
He likes his toys. A broken toy is not worth anything, so he takes care not to damage them. As rough as he may play, pushing someone to the edge physically or mentally, he knows that there's a line for everyone, and he won't strive to cross that line. Invariably, people end up hurt or insane, since he often overestimates the limits of mortals, but most of the time he can curb his desires before directly breaking someone in half like snapping a stick over a knee.
He obtains his sustenance through playing with others. It is their dreams, wishes, and emotions which he consumes, and he deliberately moves them certain ways in order to get the taste he wants. Anger is spicy like a raw chili pepper. Fear is a sweet sour like soft lemon cake. Love is a deep red saccharine with undertones of bitterness like wine - an emotion he can get drunk on. A great emotion to consume, since it also comes with a desert, the tang of distress that comes from the person realising their love had been sapped to nothing.
Best of all, he savours the taste of dreams. Each dream is unique, giving him a starburst of flavour; as they should - those things are the driving force behind every mortal's actions. Dreams are their safety net, their rose-tinted glasses through which they see their world, their compass in an ultimately directionless world.Appearance and story next post
Siriche continued. Due to him being so ancient, I see no value in recounting his history. So, instead, here's a little story to show you what kind of person he is. Along with appearance information.
!!! GORE AND HORROR WARNING !!!
─── STORY!!! AGAIN: GORE AND HORROR WARNING !!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED !!!
You are lost. You can't quite remember why you're out here or how you even got here in the first place.
You stand on a beach of whispering black sand. To your right, waves crash against the shore, filling the air with a salty tang. To your left, the jagged black landscape eventually melds into grey grass which goes on forever. You're not sure. There's a lot of fog, and the sky is dark.
You look back. There are footsteps. Your footsteps.
Wind buffets you, and you pull your arms against your sides. It's very cold.
Ahead of you, a cliff rises from the ocean. A cottage sits atop it, its cream walls and the red roof the only dashes of colour in the otherwise monochrome landscape. Smoke puffs out of the only chimney. It squats there comfortably, as if it was meant to be there.
Your feet take you to the door. It feels like you only took two steps, but you're suddenly there, up on the cliff high above the raging surf.
Warm, welcoming light emanates from the windows. You wave aside the cloud puffing in front of your face and knock.
There's a commotion inside, some clattering and scraping, and the door swings open.
A hospitable young man greets you, rosy-cheeked and shiny-eyed, a kind smile on his face. "You must be quite lost," he says to you.
You nod. Over his shoulder, you see a cozy little space with a bed shoved up against the corner, the room lit by a small hearth. Above the fire a pot bubbles and pops. Books and pillows litter the room.
"Well, don't just stand there. Come in, come in," he says, and you do.
The moment you enter, the cold is banished from your body. A fuzzy warm feeling envelops you, and you sigh comfortably.
"Have a seat," your host says, gesturing behind you.
But you'd just entered. Behind you was the door.
You turn. A high-backed chair decked in jewels awaits you. Red velvet plush rolls down the back and into the seat, furling over the arms.
Beyond the chair is a long, long hallway, long enough that the end of it is shrouded in darkness, even with the periodic scones on the wall. The ceiling is high and arched, supported by massive columns of black quartz shooting upward and interlocking in kaleidoscopic patterns. You see no windows on the bare, soaring walls.
Unsettled, you turn back to your host, hesitantly sitting on the edge of the chair. The velvet is soft as clouds, enticing you to sit back fully, but you resist the temptation.
Once more you are surprised. Gone is the homey little cottage room. A vast, desolate room stretches out around you, the corners vanishing into darkness. It's the same style as the hallway - titanic pillars of black stone etched with gold supporting the ceiling a dizzying distance away.
You look down before you faint from how high it is. Ahead of you is spread a long table set with pristine cloth and glittering, bejeweled dinnerware. Every delicacy you could imagine was present - roast pork, soft bread, steaming vegetables soaked in sauce. Even things you couldn't imagine.
Despite yourself, you water at your mouth.
This had to be a dream.
"I trust you are comfortable?" Someone says beside you, their voice smooth as pearls.
You barely succeed holding in a scream as you turn. There your host stands - he is different from the man who let you in, yet the same. He is tall. Silky white hair falls around his face, contrasting starkly against the slate grey tone of his skin (how had you not noticed that earlier?), pooling at his shoulders and coiling together in a thick, loose knot behind his back. His eyes are an amazing wine red, imbued with whispered secrets, accentuated by the strange marking on his forehead - a thin, vertical line about a pinky's length.
As he draws away from you with the grace of a dancer, moving down the table, you finally pull yourself away from staring at his mesmerising face with its fluttering lashes and perfect cheekbones, and take in the rest of him. He is dressed in a snow white robe, draped and fitted to his body to enhance every sleek movement. A black cloak unfurls down his back to trail along the ground, so dark as if it were made of shadows. You think you see the edges of it move and swim with a life of its own.
"I am delighted you have joined me for dinner." He is suddenly at the end of the table, far down the room, and even though many dishes piled high with food should be blocking your view of him, you can see him in perfect detail. He wears a smile. It is slightly too wide. His teeth are slightly too white.
You don't want to have dinner. "I'm lost," you stammer. Your voice is unworthy among the otherwise perfect surroundings. "I just want to go home."
You want to wake up. Under the table, you pinch yourself.
"Rest assured, I guarantee your return home." Your host says. "The night is long; stay a while." He lifts a crystal wineglass, tipping the bloodred liquid inside towards his lips. "Try to make it through dinner."
The dizziness strikes you suddenly, like a punch to your gut. You fly to your feet, chair scraping out behind you. You hadn't eaten anything.
At the head of the table, the smile of your host stretches into a smirk. There is nothing friendly about it - if anything, it is a show of teeth. Razor, scissoring teeth. The shadows behind him seem alive, pulsing, breathing. His cloak was actually a pair of wings, you realise. They fan out behind him, filling the room, the feathers so black they seemed to be drenched in ink.
Frantically, you pinch yourself. Wake up. Wake up!
The pain nearly sends you to your knees.
It had to be a dream. A nightmare.
Try as you might to calm down your erratic breathing and spasming muscles, you fail, and you bolt. The door was behind you when you entered. If all is an illusion, then it has to be there.
The host doesn't chase you. Your rapid footsteps pounding into the marble floors are the only sound in the otherwise quiet edifice, harsh and cracking. You don't meet any door or feel any invisible wall.
The hall stretches far and wide, the shadows and light melting together in sickening swirls. The whole structure of stone around you swings, and you stagger. It feels like the walls are closing in on you.
The wall scones go out, plunging you into darkness, and your next step doesn't find solid ground.
You fall.
You crash to a stop, heart threatening to burst out of your chest. The darkness lifts, and you are in a room.
Your room. Beside you, your bedsheets are a tangle, spilling off the mattress. Your clothes are soaked in sweat. Your throat is dry and hoarse.
It was just a dream.
Oh sweet reality. You hug the ground, breathing in the must of the wooden floorboards. Your chest heaves up and down.
Your door swings open. It's your parents. "Are you alright?" They ask you, and reach toward you with open arms. "We heard you screaming."
"Nightmare," you sob, and throw yourself into their arms.
They embrace you, and for that small moment, you are safe. You close your eyes. Your parents smell familiar. Your bedroom smells familiar. You are safe.
Then, something sticky runs over your hands. Your eyes flicker open, and you scream.
Your parents - if they even are your parents at this point - scream back. You are hugging a pair of creatures, their skin hanging in rotting tatters off of their bones and muscles squirming with bugs. Blood has soaked the sheets of yellow on them, seeping into your clothes.
You struggle to extract yourself from their grip, still screaming. Their screams overpower yours. Their grip is steel strong, even though they are no more than a collection of oozing bone, flesh, and guts.
Your mother's eyeball slides loose from its socket, falling to the ground. It squelches on impact and bounces into your leg. Bile rises in your throat. You taste vomit.
"Sweety..." the monsters gurgle, barely forming the word, and a wave of spiders and worms spill out of their mouth. Your parents never called you sweety.
Prickles race up your arms. A spiky feeling scuttles up your legs. Looking down, a mass of black sticky insects have begun to consume you, blood dripping down in rivulets.
Your voice is giving out. You open your mouth for one last scream-
Something bitter and smooth lands in your mouth. It's moving, and you feel a thousand tiny legs on your tongue. You hack and gag and cough, trying to get it out, but it only squirms inward.
From your parents' arms on your shoulders, thousands of icky beetles and centipedes swarm your face. Spiders force their way into your mouth.
You're choking.
They're going down your throat. Their thin hairy legs poking holes in your windpipe. You can't breathe.
Abruptly, everything stops. The sensations disappear, and everything goes black.
Slowly, very slowly, your feeling comes back to you. A pair of arms holds you from behind, their gentle hands firmly pulling your hands away from clawing your mouth. Your head rests again someone's chest. The sensation of tiny pinprick legs crawling all over you fades.
Their touch is soft. Calming.
You retch. You know better than to trust.
"Darling," a voice drawls, and it sends shivers down your spine. You find your muscles giving out, going slack.
The blackness lifts. You had been squeezing your eyes shut. Tentatively, you crack one open.
Your breath catches. That man meets your eye. Deep red eyes, dusky complexion, milky white hair. Your vision blurs with tears. In your hazy vision, he seems to have another eye.
You're back in the hallway of marble and quartz. Light streams in from above - the entire ceiling was of glass, only earlier it had been inky night you didn't see it.
"Get away from me!" You yell, voice cracking. He was the source of all your problems. You try to throw a punch, but he catches your hand.
"Hush. You're safe." His words are a rumble in his chest. He grins lazily. "Do rest your throat; you don't want to strain it."
"Who are you!?" You throw yourself into his chest with all your might, but he doesn't move. "Get away from me!"
"Shh." He chuckles. "Just rest for now."
He wipes the tears from your eyes. In your now clear sight you see clearly that he does have a third eye. The marking you'd noticed earlier opens a jagged crack straight down his forehead, revealing a deep red iris the same his regular eyes but with a slit pupil.
You feel a scream rising.
"It has been a wonderful meal with you," he says. With one slender finger he motions in front of your chest, and a tendril of shadow rises out. He twists it around his hand, brings it to his mouth, and slips it in, snapping his pointed teeth shut around it. His eyes slide shut blissfully. "Delicious."
"You said you'd let me go home!" You fight against him as best as you can, making the most of your trembling muscles. "You liar!" You try to bite at his hand, but effortlessly, he evades you.
"Oh, sweetheart." He smooths your hair back. His nails are claws, white and tapering to deadly points. "I don't lie."
He taps your forehead. The last thing you see is that deadly red eye staring straight into your soul, and everything goes black.
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You wake up tired in the morning. Dusty sunlight filters through the windows. Birds chirp outside the windows, and the little tree beyond the glass waves its leaves at you.
Downstairs, you can hear your parents talking happily as oil crackles in a pan. The smell of toast floats in the air.
Your chest feels heavy and empty, as if something had been torn out. Strange. You ignore the feeling.
You yawn. You slept well and long last night, dreamlessly. You are happy.
