ghost {bran}

[Nyra Charlotte Enigma]

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@ Bran Viola

419 Words

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Put it all back together again [break]
In the quiet of my private collection

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Nyra was back in the forges again, under Borealis. Rhea was curled up under a table. She didn't know what time it was
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The ancestral seat of the Engina dynasty really ought to have been more impressive, but Borealis was mostly a smooth wall of marble that had been carved into something that was supposed to resemble a palace.
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The forges here were her favorite anywhere, perhaps because they were hers, perhaps because of the scenery.
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Borealis was a giant piece of marble that had been taken out of the mountain to the north. There was still a cavern where it had been, a cavern that folk lived, sheltered from the snow. It had been dragged to the north and an entire castle had been carved from it, a single piece of marble, like mortals did with their famed statues. The extra marble from the building was said to be set into the foundation of the High Court. That she didn’t know. She only knew the history of this house.
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Underground, where her forges were, there were still giant beams that had been used to secure the marble to the ground. She hung her tools on them. Those tools now included dragonhide gloves.

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Rhea had been born here, amid the rows of forges and stockpiles of metal taken from the mountains to the north. Now that metal included iron, iron that Rhea stayed far away from. Nyra had to make her gloves doubly thick before she could touch it, but she could touch it. She had made a rapier for the crown prince in return for these gloves. The Queen had not asked for anything. That was alright. Nyra had ideas.
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A chain linked breastplate sat on her work table. She had molded each individual ring out of iron at first, trying to get the right width and thickness before she was ready to do mass batches. Her favorite part was not the chain links. It was the supports, built like a ribcage, a mix of iron and silver, none of it enchanted, decorated with images of hunting hounds and leaves. The leaves were slightly raised off the ribcage. She had done them after walks in the forest, and she liked to imagine them dusted in snow.
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This was only the first piece in a suit of armor, but she was sure it would fit Bran. She was more sure that it would be brilliant, because her ideas usually were. Her sister had not asked what she was working on so she had not said. It was probably for the best. Either way. She still had his knives. 
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[Bran Viola]

How many times had they met now? How much longer was Bran able to really tell himself that there was value to what he was doing here? He’d come to enjoy spending time with this girl. She was a castoff of the high court, and for once, when he saw a faerie, he wasn’t spying. He wasn’t killing. These two things were the only purpose Bran had had in recent years. Placing them aside temporarily was a relief. There was plenty of work to be done, but Bran found himself returning to her home in between excursions, purely to give himself something to do that wasn’t more of the same. It was stimulation. It was something different in the endless desert that Bran had been told to walk his whole life. That’s what he told himself. There was still function here though. He was reminded of this every time the monolithic marble corpse shed by the enigma line cut into his vision in between snowflakes the dim gray of ash. The dim gray of iron. This girl was able to do something that had not been done in aeons.



The monotony of the resplendent halls was getting to him. For all Gemini’s prattle about his individuality, the origins that bit at him like flies from the primeval mud were all here, as clear cut as his own sharp decorum. Had those piercing eyes devoured from the pages set in the bookshelves that surrounded bran like statuesque mourners at the funeral for the blood right the half breed was denied? Maybe. Probably not. Bran hadn’t looked into the chronology of borealis. Yet again he found himself searching for some secret of the enigma line to be pulled from the structure, and yet again he found he didn’t even really know what he’d look for. This search for weakness was just an instinct. This instinct hadn’t left him empty handed. He had access to this palace. That in and of itself was valuable. The Crown prince’s rapier. He’d been witness in part to its construction. The whole time he’d talked with Nyra, he’d savored the blade with empty eyes, thinking of the manners in which it could be broken and returned to her. Bran had abandoned these thoughts yet again. If Bran was called upon to remove the crown prince there would be no duel. Just a hole, where an iron knife once laid him down. 



Bran began the descent to the forges, and the dark clouds that hung about his head whenever he thought too much cleared to a more even gray as he saw a pale figure stain itself repeatedly with the fruit of labor. He simply stood at the doorway and watched her. Rhea had likely already seen him. That was how it tended to go. He usually let her speak first, once she’d noticed he was there, rather than interrupt her train of thought. She was more talkative than him anyway.



Bran waited in silence with a tired look on his face. He’d killed a north court knight on his way here. It was just a coincidence.

tags-Nyra Charlotte Enigma ,

[Nyra Charlotte Enigma]

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@ Bran Viola

222 Words

Music

n/a

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Put it all back together again [break]
In the quiet of my private collection

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Rhea clattered across the tables and Nyra looked up abruptly. Bran was there, hanging by the door like a shadow at midday. She smiled.


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“Ironsider,” she said. “Hello.” [break][break]


Even with the acquisition of dragon skin, she had not stopped working on Rhea. The fawn was now slightly larger, with golden joints set into her legs, and a braided tail with every single strand of silver handmade. No one had noticed. [break][break]


She gripped her gloves tighter. Here it was more necessary to be warm. The walls were smooth and slick, even in the forges, and there was no forest or mountains to ward off the chill. For now, Nyra was grateful for the furnace. [break][break]


“Are you cold?” She asked. He didn’t even look uncomfortable. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Or anything. He was the first person she had ever really cared about that wasn’t a relative. There was Juno, and Calanthe, and Gemini. There were her professors. That was about it. Certainly he was the first mortal. [break][break]


“I made you something.” They always started this way, her saying she made

something and handing it to him. He had gotten better at spotting details. But this was the first time she had ever made something for him. She didn’t have to tell him it was iron. He could see her gloves.

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[Bran Viola]

The shadow peeled from where it hung in the air, becoming a mortal whose dark eyes felt the contours of the room as a though a blind man, crawling across the floor.



“I wish you’d stop calling me that. You know what my name is.”



Despite his protests, the young mans form, a dull black stain against the marble of borealis, revealed the hollow sheen of the forbidden metal that had been taken from its womb in the earths depths eons prior. He removed his sword, and the chain at his waist, shedding the equipment like so many iron feathers. Perhaps the name reminded him of its weight.



In reality, Bran wasn’t really comfortable removing his weaponry, but the faerie, covered in the evidence of her own efforts, yet more incriminating detritus strewn about her, had a tendency to forget she wasn’t supposed to be to close to him. She’d grab him to show him something, or run into him while she moved about, not caring where he was as long as he was close enough to see whatever she did. After she’d burned herself the third time, Bran gave up on trying to dance around her, and just started putting his things aside. At least she had gloves now.



“No, not really.”



The tint of red could be seen now, his iron mask removed to reveal a face that, though usually pale, had been undoubtedly kissed by winter. His hair was slightly wet, small flecks of snow still scattered throughout. Apparently it was quite cold, as not all had yet thawed. Even so, it seemed that it was warmer than outside, for Bran was taking off a glove, the finger in his mouth, as he extracted his hand and ruffled his hair with it, a futile attempt to knock the remaining snow from it. Bran looked at his newly wet hand with a slight irritation, and waved it in the air to dry it as he looked back up at her.



“You don’t need to say that. You’ve always made something.”



It was a bit rude to speak that way, but his voice was soft as he said it. She hadn’t asked him to bring any iron, which was fairly odd. What had she made this time? A spark of recognition flew against his dark eyes, like the flick of a dead lighter, as he realized what she’d just said.



“Wait. You made me something?”



He jumped a small bit as Rhea walked by him, up from under the table. That was probably Brans fault for stomping around. He’d been here enough times that he expected he’d be used to it by now, but every time he saw the thing it had been expanded upon by its caretaker, meaning bran was really never able to adapt to seeing it. This time it was slightly larger. He watched it pass to Nyra, and watched as its tail, another new addition swayed against its hindquarters.



“Hello Rhea.”



Anthropomorphizing the creature tended to make him feel better about the automaton. It was getting harder to tell it was one anyway. Bran didn’t know if that was better or worse.


tags-Nyra Charlotte Enigma,

[Nyra Charlotte Enigma]

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@ Bran Viola

340 Words

Music

hair ; Outfit ; Armor inspo

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Put it all back together again [break]
In the quiet of my private collection

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Nyra tilted her head, unbothered. Her hair was more intricately done today than usual. The simple ponytail was no longer effective. When working with iron, she needed her hair bound up in a net to keep iron dust from getting caught in it. She had to wear long sleeves, tall boots. They weren't dragonskin, but just for shavings, they didn't need to be. She refused to wear a mask. She hadn't gotten burned on her face too badly yet. 
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"You know my name," she said. "I haven't heard you use it." That wasn't an insult. It was a fact. If he wouldn't use hers, she had no reason to use his. Besides, he looked like the word 'ironsider' sounded. Even if he had started putting his weapons away. He never left his armor behind. 
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She nodded in response to his question, moving so he could see the brestplate. It was only one size. "Perhaps it is a bit too large," she said. "But I have your measurements." She had never stopped and asked him to be measured. She just knew, watching him next to the various things he was making. It was not hard to tell. He was built like Gemini.
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This was a chestplate for a knight, and he liked to insist that he wasn't one, but it was all she had ever made. Anyway, she had toned down the gemwork. She was very pleased with herself.
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The gems were all black, set into the supports. The supports were built directly into the breastplate, the chains fanning up and out from them. She had built it to withstand force, not arrows. He would need a shield if he was going up against arches. 
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"It is your chestplate." She said. "You have no armor, and you should. I was bored." She shrugged. She knew that this design was something knew, a design built for melee combat and not sneak attacks. The fae favored the element of surprise. She favored the element of design. 
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"Have you seen Rhea's tail?" she asked.

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[Bran Viola]


“Nyra, Nyra, Nyra.”



He half muttered this as he started forward to where she was. It was sort of to prove a point. He’d called her by her name a few times, right? If he hadn’t he’d try to start. He came up beside her, slightly past where she stood. He had the luxury of drawing close to the item, an intricately carved, charm covered ribcage. Discreet baubles even hung from its frame in places. He couldn’t imagine it would be possible to create something like this without touching it. He looked to her, his face not blank, but rather in a position that told the viewer he was utterly unsure of what expression to put on it.



“You’ve never measured me. How’d you even…”



He trailed off as he followed the line of the third rib from the outside the center, where his finger lifted from the metal for a moment, hovering weakly in the air before dropping to his side with a strange melancholy.



“Mine? I-I don’t understand. I keep telling you I’m not a knight.”



He had turned back to her again, and as he’d done so, the earnest expression that greeted him stung in a way he didn’t really understand.



“You were bored and so you made- you made this- out of a material that you can’t even touch?”



He’d had no idea why she kept asking him to bring her iron. He would deliver a material that, in the faewild, was incredibly rare, and she would confirm her curiosity over and over again, building countless trinkets, a cornucopia of baubles, innumerable inventions. This was perhaps the first one she’d even expected to be used at some point. Most of her prior creations were atop various shelves, in the same places she’d put them after showing him. There really seemed to be no motive force beyond her than the act of creation itself. He should have understood that by now.



This was a gift. For Bran. And for whatever reason, this utterly baffled him.



“I cant wear this, I-“



Bran fell silent. After a while he spoke again, this time of something he could.



“Yeah. She’s taller now too, isn’t she?”

tags- Nyra Charlotte Enigma,

[Nyra Charlotte Enigma]

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[attr="class","Lost"]

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@ Bran Viola

567 Words

Music

hair ; Outfit ; Armor inspo

[break][break]

Put it all back together again [break]
In the quiet of my private collection

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Nyra let him say her name like an incantation. It would never do anything. There was no power in speaking a name that wasn’t even true.


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The fae couldn’t lie, but none of them went by their true names. Even her didn’t dare to risk it. Her sister knew it. She knew it. No one else did.


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It was an odd sensation, to be born knowing things. Her name and who she was, for sure, but beyond that. She knew things like angles and lines just by looking. There were some things that could not be taught.


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“I looked.” She said, which was no explanation at all, but she could not elaborate, not in a way that made sense. “You stood next to my armor stand. You lean in that doorway. This is my home.” She shrugged. “I look.”


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She looked at things she was not supposed to. She saw things most people missed. It wasn’t just measurements, it was weaknesses in design. It was flaws and it was skills. She was afraid she had made Rhea too perfect.


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“Can I ask you a question,” she said, not waiting for an answer. “Is Rhea too perfect? Have I made an idealized version of a fawn instead of a fawn itself?”


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Sometimes she felt that way, like she was born from someone saying what the fae were and her being made, that she was just a bit too much what she was supposed to be. All fae had mortal tendencies, all of them. But she couldn’t find hers with any significance. She was as capricious as any, as knowledgeable as any, as tied down by dynasties and ancestry as any. She was glad to have a second opinion. Rhea could not only be her creation.


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“I was bored,” she repeated. “My sister forbids me from the High Court. They want me to send them pieces. I do. The High Queen does not understand forging. She asks for far too few pieces. I cannot send so many gifts before they start refusing them out of suspicion. The fae do not like spontaneous gifts.”


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“And now my sister is gone on her hunts for longer and longer, and she says I can go see my father, but she knows I won’t.” Nyra hated being in her fathers house, more than she hated being here. No forges, no weaponsmiths. Nothing to work with. No iron, no gloves. No bed for Rhea. Nothing there that implied that it was for her, because it wasn’t. This was her home.


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“I can touch it now,” she said, rolling up her sleeves to show off her gloves, glancing down at the wound from where she had been burned. “Well, no. I can handle it. I have these.” She held out her hands and the gloves were iridescent in the light.


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The burn was healed, mostly, but the blood vessels around it were darker than anywhere else, almost charcoal gray. They were close to the color of her gloves. She did not know if that was common, but the burn did not hurt anymore. She had discussed it with Juno and Juno had said little. It was probably nothing.
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“Why can’t you wear it?” She asked, waiting for a reason, a real reason. She didn’t know where his home was or where he lived. She didn’t know what he worked in or how he came to faerie. She assumed he was like her, trapped and bored, except he had found a way out. She was jealous.



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