#tldr: her life has largely been dictated by assholes

[paimon-more-like-paime]

My oc, Niamh Nic Daibheid, dreamer and bandrui aspirant

Backstory below (warning: a lot of words).

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Red moons hang low in the sky above a great forest. Its edges stretch from the vast and empty moorlands of the north to the cobalt sea to the south. The inside of the forest, though, stretches much further; they call it Foraois an Phuca, the Puca’s Wood, for a reason. And within it, crossing through bramble and thorn, over hill and brook is a woman carrying a little girl. There are cuts and scrapes along her skin, and her dress has been torn to rags. It has been years since she’s been in this forest, but she remembers every tree and stone. For years she has been dreaming of this night, dreaming of freedom. Her eyes wander towards the moons watching over her. She frowns and hugs her daughter closer; she knows what portents they give.

Her ears, sharp as knives, no longer pick up the howling and barking of the hunting dogs and so she slows her pace and continues trudging forward. Her heart may be thunder and her lungs on fire but she’s keen to give her daughter the freedom she deserves. At this moment, there is few stronger than her.

Breathing heavy and ragged, she finally finds the clearing she was looking for just as day breaks. Her tree by the stream, her home, has long since been cut down. She knew what had happened, but it still hurt to find it so. In its place are flowers, some planted, some placed. She sat down on the stump and set her daughter on her feet. Her blonde hair and pale skin may be her father’s, but her yellow eyes and her freckles were hers. Her smile had all the warmth of the gentle sun. She hugged and held her daughter close, feeling her heartbeat. She felt tired and she felt heavy, but she didn’t regret what she did. She was at peace.

The girl hugged her mother tight, long after she realized her death. So many words she wanted to say, but they all fell like lead when they came out. She didn’t know what to do or where to go so she stayed like that for a long while.

Her eyes were red and dry by the time her half-elf ears caught the sound of some large bird landing. When she looked, it wasn’t a bird, it was a man, tall as oak and thin as aspen. Beneath his feet were plucked flowers, as if he was carrying them that way. He paid the flowers no mind as he slowly walked over to the body. The girl could see his face more clearly then, it was freckled with a nose like a hawk’s and yellow eyes.

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The last amber rays of the sun stretched and crawled along the verdant forest until it met the closed eye of a sleeping girl resting against a tree. She yawnes and rubs her eyes as she sit ups. Her hair, long and blonde and unruly, sticks up at strange angles, but she doesn’t bother fixing it. Looking up at the sky, she scratches her head and wonders how long she’s been asleep. Based on the sun, she’d say she missed all her classes. Normally that would make her a bad student, but the druids here specialize in dreams. No, what apparently made her a bad student was something else.

She stands up, preparing to go home to her uncle, when two voices call out to her. They belong to the grandsons of The Eldest, and rarely, the girl considers, do they ever anything of worth to say. They walk up to her, blocking off her path. They tell her they can have fun together. One awkwardly flexes in place, the other tries to reach for her hand, she yanks it back. They try to shower her with compliments, call her ears cute even if they’re short, call her pretty for a half-elf, call her exotic like she wasn’t a person. It’s nothing she hasn’t heard before. She ignores them, tries to walk past them and keep on going home, when she hears them call her ‘the word’.

She stops dead in her tracks. She clenches her hands tight till her knuckles turn white. It’s not even just the meaning of the word that gets to her, it’s how they use it; casually. To them, it’s even an insult, it’s just fact. She lets fire burn and build up inside her, and then she remembers what her uncle told her, what her uncle taught her. She takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets all that anger pass, lets the fire subside as she exhales. She takes not even three steps forward when one of the boys, the one with small antlers, pulls her hair.

She lets that fire burn back up and spits it right out as acid. She bites down. Hard. There’s blood. Crying and screaming ensue.

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The largest of the Corpse Moons is at its zenith, staring down at the grove and the scene it holds alongside the other remains in the sky. A crowd, dressed in fine stark white robes, has assembled near the sprawling roots of some great and acnient tree. In the center and near the base are two men. The one standing, hairy like a dog, has one clawed hand on his oaken staff, and the other on the shoulder of the man sitting, ready to whisper in his ear. The one sitting is old, perhaps even more ancient than the tree he’s become a part of. Wrinkles lines his dark skin, and its uncertain if what crowns his head are antlers or branches.

A warm breeze carrying the sound of ringing bells sweeps through the crowd. The aspirants have arrived and the druids part themselves to let them through. A woman with yellow eyes and short pointed ears is among them at the very back of the line. One by one, the aspirants walk up to and kneel before The Eldest. They’re being given their final task, their final hunt to prove their cunning, their skill, their worth as a druid.

When it’s the woman’s turn, she can feel the eyes of the crowd burning holes in her back, she can feel their judgement. They pass their whispers amongst each other, thinking or simply pretending that she can’t hear them, as she walks up.

“Niamh Nic Daibheid.” The man standing stares daggers at her. If her uncle was a hawk, this man was a wolf. And a cunt, Niamh quietly adds to herself.

The Eldest opens his eyes. They hold countless stars and nebulae in their blindness. Hoarsely, he asks “Which one is that again?”

The wolf-man bends down to answer. “Fiadh’s daughter and Bran’s niece.” He glances at Niamh for a second before adding, “The mongrel.”

Niamh takes a deep breath and then sharply exhales. “What is my quarry? What am I hunting?”

“I wonder. Are you up for the task, half-human? You could be hunting anything, you know, and we know about your-” He pauses, hanging onto his thoughts before he finds the right word. “-limitations.” He finishes, smiling.

She returns the gesture and bares her teeth. They’re like knives. In the crowd, two men shudder as old pain resurfaces. Another sighs and buries his face in his hand; he knows exactly what his niece is prepared to do. “You know as well as I do what ‘limits’ I have. I’ll do what it takes.”

“Will y-”

“Dara, enough.”

“Sir? I-”

“Daughter of Fiadh, from what I’ve heard, you work twice as hard for half the praise. You may only be a half-elf, but you’ve done more than enough to prove your potential. Now, I ask, are you ready to prove your place among us?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Ok then. What do you know about your father?”

#paime's ocs #paime's art #tldr: her life has largely been dictated by assholes #and now she's told that to be accepted by the only community she's really ever known #she has to follow their terms #she has four fingers cause i was watching The Dragon Prince when I first drew her