better.
the 750gp on the simulacrum was so worth it
Fellmoon had woken up with her cheek smushed to the pillow, staring vacantly into the empty room for thirty minutes. Her progenitor is lazy but even the Simulacrum knows the telltale signs of a bad dream. Fellmoon would further argue that it wasn’t technically a bad dream but the Simulacrum cared little for semantics. What you see behind closed eyes shouldn’t dim the colors of morning light. Even that was too poetic for her taste.
Fellmoon hardly gives her the consideration meant for her non–construct friends. Right, ‘friends’ within quotes because this bitch is oh so complex. If there has been a drop in the frequency of trauma dumping, it went to the mage not liking the truth being spat on her face. That doesn’t quite spare the Simulacrum from finding Fellmoon huddled up over untouched documents—sniffling—half the time, and laying flat on her back as though a princess in a glass coffin the other half the time. How melodramatic.
It was an expected string of words: saw her again, she was so radiant, why did it hurt to look at her? It didn’t take too much digging into their shared memories to find out this wasn’t the first time. In fact, the Simulacrum is surprised Eirlys is coming around to it only now. You see, even when Eirlys Fellmoon thought she liked guys, she just hated herself more. It was only a matter of time until gazing at the sun hurt, it burnt, and the moon found herself dimmer floating next to it. It was only a matter of time.
“You are a fish in a pond watching a bird fly across the sky, and wondering why it can’t be you. You uprooted yourself to see her in her element. Don’t you think how it looks, when she sees you in yours?”
But Fellmoon hasn’t found her element yet —the Simulacrum knows that, too. At least one that could earn her the perceived steadiness she oh-so admired about that Oathsworn. Instead Fellmoon cries, broken little thing, and while the Simulacrum has been woven to be betterbetterbetter than her in every single way arcane limits couldn’t butt its nose into, she, too, was an extension of Eirlys Fellmoon. Eirlys Fellmoon, to whom shame clung like water droplets, just as her heart to her sleeves.
For better and for worse.
With a sigh, the Simulacrum wraps Fellmoon in a blanket burrito and pats the mop of dusk-washed snow hair, until the half-elf, who shall always have the chance to be better than her, weeps herself to sleep.