When Peace Beckons

Neoma Neoma remembered the stillness in her bones and then the painful cracking of her spirit the day Mother Dygra granted her the new strength, that which Rhue had specifically beckoned her not to conjure. Ever since, Neoma knew Mother Dygra had a rather impatient attitude towards her. Neoma accepted her stony prison, seeking the darkness within the darkness, turning away from the gift of life Mother had given her. She herself never had a mother that cared. Never had a mother that bound her hair back in a bun, taught her to use her eyes to communicate, or breathed in her the importance of blood, of life, of giving with the future in mind. As the man slinked past her, her hurts returned, rattling within the deep recesses of her sides. Neither had she any kin to call brother or sister. Only strangers who sought counsel, sought guidance, sought things she herself only learned from Rhue. So whenever she'd awoken over the years, the other figures around her seemed but like dreams. Dreams she kept just as distant as the figures in her nightmares, forms she knew may return and resemble those she cared about, but would never seek to touch herself. That is, until today. When the memory of Rhue was no longer enough to keep her satisfied. Neoma followed behind Danta, one of many shadows she had known wandered in here but never sought to draw near to. Her steps light across the obsidian. As his offering dripped for their Mother, she turned to him with a somber, yet pleading expression colored by the dark. "For Her." She lowered her gaze as the sharpened nail of her right thumb cracked the skin of her left palm. Neoma refused to wait until his time was finished and allowed her drops to fall like his, daring to test the gesture of their blood intermingling in the same offering. Her first act alongside someone she hoped to call brother. Remember. Or don't. It's up to you.