Under the cut is some info on Nymisha !!
full name: Nymisha Devi
faceclaim: Mishti Rahman
age: 26
gender/pronouns: She/Her
occupation: Palace guard
Tw - death in childbirth, mentions of dead body, blood Your life began when your mother’s ended. It is not a new story, not one that hasn’t been told before, but it marked you before you even began, branded you with a disadvantage few can claw their way out of. Orphan. You might have died too, but you were strong from the off. Your father found you drenched in your mother’s blood, her body not yet cold. He wrapped you in a blanket, and there was no doubt to anybody who heard your screams that you were determined to survive. You have no memory of your father. There are times when you catch the scent of something you cannot describe, and for a moment feel indescribably overwhelmed with a sense of home you’ve never truly known. Your earliest memories are of the orphanage where you were raised. You do not know your own stories, and there is nobody to tell you. Nobody can tell you who kept you alive in your earliest years. Nobody can even tell you who your parents were, nevermind how you came to be foraging through garbage with a toddler’s soft hands, desperately looking for something to eat, to keep yourself alive. The orphanage was the first thing you ever knew. You suppose it wasn’t too bad. You were fed, and there was a roof over your head, and that is about all you can truly say of it. There is no place for love there, but plenty for your rage. And oh, you were angry. You were furious, in fact. Your past had been wiped from you, and the only evidence that it ever happened was the fact you existed at all. Who you are and what you were supposed to be has long since been robbed from you, a burden no child should ever have to bear. Your past was gone, and your future was bleak. There are few prospects for an orphan in this world. Even less for one like you. You could have accepted your lot in life. It would have been easy to do that, but it felt far too much like giving up, and that was something you would never be comfortable with. You didn’t survive this long to bow to the demands of others, to play by rules that were set up for you to fail. And so you made your own rules. The first: To never walk away. You were stronger than giving up. You knew it, even if the rest of the world sneered at you, took you for a child and a fool. You were more than that, undaunted and unafraid of consequences, holding your pride dearer to you than anything. You created rule number one in commemoration of everything you can’t remember, in rebellion of the expectation that you would amount to nothing. Rule number one allows you to do as you please without worry for what comes later, to remind you that it doesn’t matter anyway. But then there is rule number two. It’s not your favourite rule, but then rules are not there for your amusement. It came when the first rule caused you to wander, bringing you far from the orphanage where you were told never to roam. You took from someone to fill your belly, but regretted it when they realised how little they had, too. Isn’t that always the way of the world? Somebody took from you, took everything. Even your name had been stripped from you. You had a new one now, Nymisha, and though that’s what you’ve been called for as long as you can remember, but it will always hang wrong on you, it will never be truly yours. You had everything taken from you, and so you took from others. Would they take from someone else in turn? Would the cycle continue, with you as beholden to it as those you hated so? No. You would not. As so came rule number two: Do not take what is not yours. Rule three was one you’d been born with, though you hadn’t yet realised it. It is so ingrained in you that you didn’t even realise it was a rule until you were a woman grown, able to look and reflect on your life. Through every fight, every split lip and bruised knuckle, it has been your mantra, a chant that kept you going on days where your stomach growled and your knees knocked, an instinct that had been inside of you since you were born screaming loud enough to shake the foundations of the earth. The third rule is simple, and it trumps everything else, even one and two: Survive. That is all there is to it. Breaking rule three is not an option.
