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Roleplaying


In-character posts may contain disturbing or explicit content.

Moderated by Cetasaurus

The moonlight radiating through the tall, uncovered windows sparkled across the tall chandeliers that gently swung from the ceiling. It was such a light swing, one you would only notice if you had been staring at them for seconds… minutes… hours.

Aira wasn’t sure how long she had been staring at the intricate glasswork. Her eyes seemed to open and find them directly. The makeshift pendulum was the only thing in her life that she could count on at this moment. The squeaking never stopped. It never stopped moving. She was never afraid of it stopping; this small aspect of her life was what was keeping her just on the edge of sanity. Or at least, what sanity seemed to be to her at this moment.

Her glass-like claws dug into the soft velvet of the chair, making the small holes that had accumulated over the years even bigger. It was a ritual now. Wake up. Look for chandelier. Sit in chair. Repeat. From time to time, she would venture out for a meal. But her existence had become pitiful, yet no matter how much she wanted to end this miserable existence, Aira couldn’t let go of the fact they might come back.

Brown eyes shifted to several large paintings on the wall. A few were worn, obviously at least decades old but hadn’t had the best upkeep. Two of the portraits on the wall were a bit more recent. All of them, however, we covered in a thick layer of dust. Her hands slowly reached up, desperately grasping towards them as she simultaneously sunk deeper into her chair. Aira wanted so desperately to touch them. Wanted to touch their portraits, wanted to touch their smooth soft skin.

Her children? What had happened to them?

Constantly, she was attacked with the thoughts of them living their days in a dark, cold, suffocatingly tight place, slowly losing their sense of self. Images of their bodies being burned by the sun flashed in her dreams. And worse: they just chose to never see her again. The thought of the fruit of her loins disowning her was too much to bare. She couldn’t be the last. There was no way that she was the last of her clan. And then she peered at the other two faces.

She had painted them from memory. Was that how they looked? Was she sure that their nose was so upturned? Were their eyes really that almond shaped? The needs to feel them in any shape or form took over her. Her weak legs stood her up, long fingers reaching towards the portraits on the wall. The thin layer of dust began to give way under her fingers as she got closer.

But then, there was a knock at her door.


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