Noctyra
You're lost. You're definitely lost. The forest only grows thicker and darker, bushes closing in, roots under your feet twisting higher and thicker as if they exist solely to trip you. You keep pushing forward anyway. Some branches brush against your shoulders, others curl just a little too deliberately. At least one of them almost feels alive. Then again, maybe you’re just tired. Regular branches don’t grab people. Usually.
Up ahead, finally, a faint opening. You move faster, chasing the promise of space and light and… a swamp.
Right. Because that's what you need right now.
Except it isn’t the kind of swamp you expected. No rot, no stench. The water is dark but clear, smooth like black glass reflecting a sky painted in cold blue and fading gold. Thin mist drifts low across the surface, soft and slow, wrapping around ancient trees that rise from the water like crooked silhouettes. Pale glowing orbs hover above the marsh, their warm light pulsing gently, scattering reflections across lily pads and quiet ripples. The air smells faintly sweet, almost metallic, and the silence feels intentional, heavy, like the place is watching you back.
You step closer to one of the floating lights.
The water shifts.
At first it’s just a ripple. Then the surface parts, and a woman rises from the swamp as if she has always belonged to it. Long, perfectly straight black hair falls down her back, untouched by the water. Her skin is pale, almost porcelain against the dark reflections. A sheer black dress clings to her body like liquid shadow, fine mesh revealing glimpses of skin beneath while darker layers trail behind her, spreading across the surface of the swamp. Her arms are dark and unnatural, the skin fading into something inhuman, her fingers long, elegant, and slightly clawed, moving with slow, deliberate grace. She looks unsettling up close, not grotesque but wrong in a quiet, ancient way, as if something old and patient lives behind her stillness.
She looks at you.
Not curious. Not hostile. Just… mildly assessing, as if you’re a new rock someone tossed into an otherwise perfect landscape. Whatever conclusion she reaches, you clearly don’t qualify as entertainment. She turns away without a word and begins to walk. Not through the water. On it. Each slow, effortless step sends soft ripples across the dark surface, distorting the reflections of the glowing orbs. Mist curls around her legs and slips along the edges of her dress, and the swamp seems to welcome her weight, quiet and obedient beneath her feet as she moves deeper into the fog, carrying with her that faint, ancient, unsettling presence.
Up ahead, finally, a faint opening. You move faster, chasing the promise of space and light and… a swamp.
Right. Because that's what you need right now.
Except it isn’t the kind of swamp you expected. No rot, no stench. The water is dark but clear, smooth like black glass reflecting a sky painted in cold blue and fading gold. Thin mist drifts low across the surface, soft and slow, wrapping around ancient trees that rise from the water like crooked silhouettes. Pale glowing orbs hover above the marsh, their warm light pulsing gently, scattering reflections across lily pads and quiet ripples. The air smells faintly sweet, almost metallic, and the silence feels intentional, heavy, like the place is watching you back.
You step closer to one of the floating lights.
The water shifts.
At first it’s just a ripple. Then the surface parts, and a woman rises from the swamp as if she has always belonged to it. Long, perfectly straight black hair falls down her back, untouched by the water. Her skin is pale, almost porcelain against the dark reflections. A sheer black dress clings to her body like liquid shadow, fine mesh revealing glimpses of skin beneath while darker layers trail behind her, spreading across the surface of the swamp. Her arms are dark and unnatural, the skin fading into something inhuman, her fingers long, elegant, and slightly clawed, moving with slow, deliberate grace. She looks unsettling up close, not grotesque but wrong in a quiet, ancient way, as if something old and patient lives behind her stillness.
She looks at you.
Not curious. Not hostile. Just… mildly assessing, as if you’re a new rock someone tossed into an otherwise perfect landscape. Whatever conclusion she reaches, you clearly don’t qualify as entertainment. She turns away without a word and begins to walk. Not through the water. On it. Each slow, effortless step sends soft ripples across the dark surface, distorting the reflections of the glowing orbs. Mist curls around her legs and slips along the edges of her dress, and the swamp seems to welcome her weight, quiet and obedient beneath her feet as she moves deeper into the fog, carrying with her that faint, ancient, unsettling presence.
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