Dollhouse

Annwyn’s grief and confusion was silenced in an instant. She wrenched her gaze from the reflection of her failures from the pool below, her skull snapping up to lock onto the form now addressing her. The woman who spoke her name colored in gray and azure, fully here before her and yet… not. She was otherworldly, a soul, but where was her body?

For a moment, Annwyn stood frozen, her guarded nature at war with the awe that flickered in her gaze. But awe won out. How could it not, when this stranger came so swiftly after her desperate prayer to Arawn? The words of his messengers still echoing in her mind, whispering of redemption. A soul to redeem her own. She rose to her paws, aligning herself to face the woman; her chains jangling softly with the movement.

“Aurelia,” Annwyn said at last, her voice steady, trying to keep her composure. She could not allow desperation to enter her tone. Acceptance, perhaps. Or maybe resignation. But she did not desire pity, even from this kindred soul. “The Gods have a way of weaving fated paths together, I suppose. You understand my burden, my pain? My need for redemption?” It was a question, but she almost felt as though she knew the woman’s answer already. And she had no reason to believe them a liar, not when the timing of her appearance was so precise, so impossibly aligned. Fated. Yet Annwyn was not one to trust blindly. Her clan had taught her too well the dangers of misplaced faith, even before they turned their backs on her.

As the specter spoke of heritage, of greed, of her life and death. Of the children left with no guidance. She took a step closer, muscular frame rippling as she beckoned the ghostly woman for more answers while giving her own. “My clan has forsaken me,” she confessed, her voice gruff with the painful truth. “In my desperation, I sought Arawn’s guidance, hoping he might show me a way to claw back some semblance of honor. I have fallen far, Aurelia. Make no mistake.” Her lips curled into something between a grimace and a smirk, a bitter acknowledgment of her path. “But it is a descent I have chosen willingly. What is wickedry in the face of dying without even a shred of grace?”

Her eyes fixed on Aurelia with a sharpness both challenging and imploring. Annwyn’s pride warred with her desperation, leaving her tone balanced on the edge of indifference and fervor. Once, she had been on the path to becoming A Priestess, a part of her community that sought to shape those around her. To be a role model. Aurelia’s words brought that aspiration back to the surface of her being, and made her jaw clench in thought. “The truth of our heritage…” She paused, tilting her head slightly, her expression shifting between contemplation and intrigue. “Are you certain? I could take on such a task, I am certain, but would the children of someone as vile as you describe listen to me? Heed me? Can their souls still be reached?” Aurelia seemed to desire her children to embody her beliefs, but in a form far greater than her own path had taken. A… call back to their roots. The origin of their religion. Though Annwyn herself had been relegated to meager rituals, and Aurelia herself was now a part of the Otherworld… there was the opportunity to teach, to guide and watch her efforts come to fruition in hands, new and untainted.

Annwyn kept her composure as she awaited her answer, but beneath the surface was a plea hidden in the low rumble of her voice. A vulnerability. A desperation. Her gaze remained steadfast—determined, but softened by the faintest glimmer of hope. Redemption. A chance. The very things she had been searching for—for seasons—now offered to her. She wanted so badly to take hold of it, to seize her honor once again. Even if she must wield her wickedness to achieve it.



"Annwyn Myfïol"