09-10-2021, 09:57 AM
let it all come out and burn like a fire
They are not truly evil, the creatures like them. Wretched perhaps, but hardly things of blackened hearts. For all her capacity for selfishness, Wrenley still finds it in herself to care. Sometimes. Her parents had instilled that much in her. But then, her selfishness had also been a thing her parents had gifted her with, however inadvertent it may have been.
They love her, you see. Deeply and forever. She had so often heard how lovely and perfect they believe her to be that she had been helpless to do anything but internalize it. Those kind and well-meaning words had taken root in her heart and blossomed there.
So no, she is not evil. She is merely a product of her upbringing.
And perhaps that is why she had never been shy about telling lovely things that they are lovely. She has heard it so often that it seems the correct and proper thing to do.
The woman (she shimmers like rainbows, fleeting and impossible to catch) responds in kind, and Wrenley tips her pretty head, sly smile pulling gently at the edges of her mouth. She too can simper, revealing her beauty in the soft turn of her expression. “Maybe,” she demures when the woman asks if it were an invitation. She doesn’t respond immediately to the second question, instead mulling it over thoughtfully. Finally, on a soft sigh, she replies, “It is… adequate, I suppose.”
High praise indeed. But then, Wrenley has spent much of her life in these woods. They have not been new and wondrous enough to capture her praise since she had been a young child. After another heartbeat of silence, the nymph continues, “And who, pray tell, am I inviting in?” She pauses, a slight frown briefly marring her lovely features. “I am Wrenley.”
They love her, you see. Deeply and forever. She had so often heard how lovely and perfect they believe her to be that she had been helpless to do anything but internalize it. Those kind and well-meaning words had taken root in her heart and blossomed there.
So no, she is not evil. She is merely a product of her upbringing.
And perhaps that is why she had never been shy about telling lovely things that they are lovely. She has heard it so often that it seems the correct and proper thing to do.
The woman (she shimmers like rainbows, fleeting and impossible to catch) responds in kind, and Wrenley tips her pretty head, sly smile pulling gently at the edges of her mouth. She too can simper, revealing her beauty in the soft turn of her expression. “Maybe,” she demures when the woman asks if it were an invitation. She doesn’t respond immediately to the second question, instead mulling it over thoughtfully. Finally, on a soft sigh, she replies, “It is… adequate, I suppose.”
High praise indeed. But then, Wrenley has spent much of her life in these woods. They have not been new and wondrous enough to capture her praise since she had been a young child. After another heartbeat of silence, the nymph continues, “And who, pray tell, am I inviting in?” She pauses, a slight frown briefly marring her lovely features. “I am Wrenley.”
Wrenley
@galadriel