A̧h̛, ͢the ̵o̸n̨e ͘w̧h͠o Dr͜e̡ams͢.͝ ̵W̛e ́remem͘be̢ŗ you̸.̴ J̶us͠t ͘a͘s͢ the͘ ͜S̸hro̡u͠d ŗeme̶m͢bers yo̡ư. B̶ut̸ t͟he͏ ͜qu̴es҉t͏ìo͝n is,̡ d͟o̵ ̕you ̢r͟e̸me͝m̛be̸r̀ u͜s͝? Y̢o̡u ͡we̛r̴e a wondęr͟f҉ul toy.̢ ̛S͢o ̧mu͜ch͝ blo̧o̵d͡,͏ ̷w͠e͡ ̢n͠a͢med ͡a̶ ̛R͘iver͟ a͟f҉t̀ęr ͘you͜!́ D͡òn͟'́t ͢y͠ou ̕r̶e͜membér͢? Yo͏ur͏ ͠'̵si͞ster͞'́ w͏às͠ ̴th̀e f̶ír̛s͡t ͠we͞ ͏p͏la̶ye̕d ̀w̡it͘h̸. N̴ò ̸m͏a͘t͠te̶ŕ—we̸ ͝wil͞l ̨p͢lay a҉ga̕i͝n̕ ͝so͝on.̨
(tw: drug use and addiction, as well as mentions of violence)The Dimwold remains quiet, as always, and Frey sits with their back to one of the trees, overlooking the still, fetid waters. The fog lays heavily over the area, and Frey's dilated silver eyes watch one of the nearby water sprites with idle fascination, transfixed by the gentle movement as a light breeze rolls through the area. Resting their head against the rough bark behind them, they lose themself to the haze of their newest high, the little white pill melting under their tongue, the taste still a bit strange in their mouth. Euphoric, relaxing, and sure to be their new staple until their tolerance builds once again and they need to seek another, and another, and another, the pleasant buzz leaves them relaxed and content as it settles in fully, drowning their usual edge of sharp anxiety and torrent of thoughts. This strange forest a sanctuary to them, one of the few places they let their guard down, they curl up and begin to doze peacefully beneath the barren boughs.
A̧h̛, ͢the ̵o̸n̨e ͘w̧h͠o Dr͜e̡ams͢.͝ ̵W̛e ́remem͘be̢ŗ you̸.̴
Black ears perk and flick, and their eyes snap open, even the lull of the chemicals clouding their mind not enough to dull the surprise. This never happens here. Voices never reach them here. The Dimwold is quiet, always quiet, and such is the appeal to the small Keeper: the stillness and silence. The one who dreams... A fitting title, they suppose, though Frey's dark painted lips curl into a bitter little smile at the next words. Voice lazy, languid, they hum, "I do strive to be memorable..." Straightening a bit, they pull their arms into a stretch over their head, curiously searching for the source of this new voice. Or, have they heard this one before? Would they even properly remember? Uncertain, Frey yawns and tries to rouse their mind to its usual sharpness.
J̶us͠t ͘a͘s͢ the͘ ͜S̸hro̡u͠d ŗeme̶m͢bers yo̡ư. B̶ut̸ t͟he͏ ͜qu̴es҉t͏ìo͝n is,̡ d͟o̵ ̕you ̢r͟e̸me͝m̛be̸r̀ u͜s͝?
The Shroud. Always the Shroud. Releasing a sigh, they settle back against the tree again, spine pressed against the trunk. "Mhm. Ever memorable, as I said, darling... Darlings?" It sounds like multitudes speaking, rather than just one, so they settle and repeat, with an affected, melodramatic sigh, "Darlings, then. Oh, would if I could recall the Shroud and all my little friends there." Lying, as they so often do, when it comes to the Twelveswood. Never admitting, never confronting. They remember more than they pretend to, but not quite everything, not the 'how' or the 'why' to the carnage committed at their hands, the explanation for the bodies in the cairns. They know enough to know that this voice differs from the one in their dreams, the one that whispers and claws at the back of their mind even to this day. It's curious, but not alarming, though some of that placid calm may be artificial.
Y̢o̡u ͡we̛r̴e a wondęr͟f҉ul toy.̢ ̛S͢o ̧mu͜ch͝ blo̧o̵d͡,͏ ̷w͠e͡ ̢n͠a͢med ͡a̶ ̛R͘iver͟ a͟f҉t̀ęr ͘you͜!́ D͡òn͟'́t ͢y͠ou ̕r̶e͜membér͢?
Frey releases a long sigh, as the voices continue, though their ears continue to swivel and try to discern a direction. Odd, how it feels like the sounds come from somewhere and nowhere, all at once. Slowly, they look down at their hands, the white spiral of marks that line their forearms. They've seen those rivers of blood, running from their fingertips, down their claws, and into the rich, black earth. "What, oh what was the river's name, I wonder? A toy, hm?" That title new, too. A champion, a tool, a weapon, they've heard all of that before, but a toy? Perhaps a toy is more fitting now, for the person they've become, the self fashioned 'entertainer' with all their theatricality and drive to play games.
Yo͏ur͏ ͠'̵si͞ster͞'́ w͏às͠ ̴th̀e f̶ír̛s͡t ͠we͞ ͏p͏la̶ye̕d ̀w̡it͘h̸.
Their sister? What does she have to do with this? At that, Frey pushes to their feet, their ears lowering a bit. How long had it even been since they'd seen Rain? Moons, now, since they last ran into her and her darling at a bar, only a pleasant conversation exchanged before the crowd and excitement swept Frey away from the quiet corner where she'd settled. For a moment, they wonder if she might be in danger, but they know her husband and their friends would never allow such, or that Frey would have been informed. A shadow of melancholy passes over them, as they wonder silently at their reasons for staying so far from her. For her little ones, Frey tells themself. For her sake, so they don't bring their messes and trouble to her doorstep. Lying, as always. They just don't want to face her when they've fallen back to every vice she once encouraged them to escape. Aside from the somnus, but really, are these new drugs any different? For now, they don't answer the voice, wanting to give nothing at all, no insight into Rain's life. This time, it is actually to protect her.
N̴ò ̸m͏a͘t͠te̶ŕ—we̸ ͝wil͞l ̨p͢lay a҉ga̕i͝n̕ ͝so͝on.̨
Again, they relax, the slight tension in their shoulders melting away while they balance on one heel and lean back against the tree. "Do as you will, darlings. I'll be here, as always." They'll survive it, as always, whatever this is, whatever it may bring. Curiosity burns brighter than any trepidation, and a smile crosses their face, cavalier and inviting. "A game might be interesting, no? Particularly if you mean to bring such fascinating pieces into the play. We'll see.~" Quiet, sonorous, they sing those last words in a playful taunt, and Frey turns their face skyward, watching the fog-muted sunbeams that filter through the trees.
They keep listening, for a time, but once again: the Dimwold is quiet.