Author Topic: Who Am I? - Lyra Doveheart  (Read 850 times)


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Who Am I? - Lyra Doveheart
« on: October 19, 2022, 02:43:58 AM »
“Isn’t the existence of the ‘self’ so tenuous?”

Who is ‘Dove’?

My voice ripples out into the mist, muffled and fading.

What marks the difference between Dove and Pigeon?

What sort of bird am I?

Long ago, I forsook all truths.

I was born-

Daughter of a humble peasant in Kartakas, growing up on stories of monsters wearing the faces of people. Couldn’t I too, change my face, and never know fear again?

I was born-

Daughter of a courtesan, in a far and a distant land. What matters truth in the face of palace intrigue? Laugh, and smile, and never stop watching your back.

I was born-

Daughter of no one, scraping by on dirty streets. Taken in by masked occultists and empty smiled strangers, I was taught the Secret of Lies, and learned grand untruths.

I was born-

Does is matter, which one happened? It’s all lost in the mist now. I cannot see past the reach of my hand.

Do I remember why?

I go through the motions of a thousand different schemes, and not a one makes me feel anything.

I escaped all pain, but with it all joy.

I just want to feel something.

I just long to hear Her voice again. The loveliest of bird songs. I’ve forgotten something, in the mist, but what does it matter?

Reality is immaterial. I’ll wish away every unpleasant truth, and rest gently in sweetest lies.

My Mother, My Guardian, My Lady

Surely, in this of all places, you may grant my prayer.
Michelle Anciaux


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Re: The Parable of the Actress - Lyra Doveheart
« Reply #1 on: November 12, 2022, 04:28:43 PM »
"It was my first lesson."

"It was my last lesson."

"I was never taught this lesson at all."

The Parable of the Actress

Once, there was a girl who decided to become an actress to escape a life of poverty.

She took up a mask and said the requisite lines, and she was praised by all as a peerless artist.

She was paid very handsomely for her work, and never would need to fear going hungry again.

But when she took off her mask, she found that she no longer knew what lines to say, and so no one paid her any mind until she returned to the stage in another role.

Having grown used to the spotlight, she took to wearing a mask off the stage as well, this one made of smiles and pleasantries. She garnered even more fame, and was praised by all as the very soul of artistry.

She changed her name to fit in with the expectations of high society.

She changed the color of her hair to match the rise and fall of fashions.

She went hungry again, to have the perfect figure.

One day, she woke up and began remembering she had never changed these things at all.

"Truth is what you make of it," said the Actress.
Michelle Anciaux


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Scattered Notes - Lyra Doveheart
« Reply #2 on: December 06, 2022, 04:06:46 PM »
Scattered Notes

I have seen it- The falsity of all creation, laid bare.

It's in the walls, and the ceilings, and the stains. They can explain away any detail, but not every detail.

Oh, what a fool I was. The world is not merely false in spirit, but in truth!

The roads! How perfect. Too perfect. They're made of lies like all the rest.

My only mistake was not going far enough.

What a wonderful puzzle you have given me, my mother, my guardian, my lady! I long to see the depths of your design.

What a beautiful lie.
« Last Edit: December 06, 2022, 04:10:53 PM by Lexica »
Michelle Anciaux


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Re: Who Am I? - Lyra Doveheart
« Reply #3 on: December 27, 2022, 08:59:07 AM »
Every word she spoke was a lie.

The most insidious sort of lie. The kind she was going to make true. Every time she spoke the ambition turned wilder, more grand. Arcane power grown vast and terrible on mad ritual became revelation of a grand truth, became godhood, became something beyond godhood.

She spoke and spoke, and with every word gilded her plans all the more.

She had long forgotten why. It was a jumble. Was it for Her approval? Was it for the approval of the other Her? Was it for herself?

Why? Why go so far? Was it sincere desperation to win back a love she had known from the start was an elaborate lie?

Had she known from the start?

When had she been pretending?

When had she been sincere?

Genius enough to spot the flaws in this mad realm, but not enough to find the seams in her own rationalizations.

She supposed, somewhere in the back of her mind, that the why didn’t really matter. Why wasn’t real. She was smoke and shadow upon the stage of life.

None could strike her down, because nothing of her was real enough to touch.

She would spin her tale until it grew grand enough to eclipse this world, and then, surely then-

Her hollow heart did not know what came after “then”.
Michelle Anciaux


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Re: Who Am I? - Lyra Doveheart
« Reply #4 on: January 28, 2023, 01:29:46 AM »
She was close. She was so close.

It all made a certain underlying sense. No, rather... A certain underlying non-sense.

It was not magic, or not magic as she had learned and studied and ached for years to grasp the barest fragments of. There was no science to it. You could not replicate a single thing. You could only find the pattern, the sense, grasp the story and find the proper moment to take charge of the narrative. It was like a good lie. The facts don't matter, only the right story to make people think they had found the real answer.

Could she trust a single conclusion she had come to? No, of course not. The Tome could have been just as fake as the spell it contained, the ruined tower they had found, just the same. Certainly the same. She knew it in her heart, that just as the ruin made a ruin was only a prop upon the stage of life, so was all the rest. But she had seen the name of her Lady, and a lie about Her.

The facts never mattered. The truth never mattered. Even if every single detail was false, she didn't need to care about that. Just as with the spell she had cast, the spell that was not a spell, the will alone would provide the fuel, and the story she told would provide the direction.

Grand, and grander, and grander still- The stakes and the tension needed to be at their highest.

Only in the purest moment of drama could she seize control of the narrative, step off the stage and into the playwright's domain, and seize their quill for herself.

The Hollow, the Ezrites called this world, and even they did not understand how right they were.

She only prayed that, in success or in failure, her own Guardian in the Mists would watch over her.

Surely, she had found her reason at last. What purer tribute could there be, to her true Mother?

Michelle Anciaux


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Lyra Doveheart -FIN-
« Reply #5 on: March 12, 2023, 06:05:48 PM »
Asylum Director's Log

The work proceeds smoothly, as always, though troubled by a few unfortunate incidents. Doctor Accoleius Proreis was unfortunately apparently abusing his position to conduct unethical experiments on the effects of poison upon mental health, and regrettably died in a struggle with poor Ysambart, an experienced member of our security team here at the asylum. Ysambart was wounded by a poisoned scalpel, and it seems there was some miscommunication with the scheduling of the medical team, no one being on hand to treat him. A terrible turn of events, leaving me no choice but to fire the lead medical Doctor for allowing this to happen.

Of course, there is a silver lining to every cloud, and despite this incident, the reputation of our great institution continues to attract the finest of staff to our halls. I believe great progress has been made with the patient Robert Emery, who has been much less prone to violent outbursts in even the short time I have been treating him. I fear that the methods of the previous director were flawed, but this is of course no aspersion against her. Science ever marches on.

Today, I will be busy interviewing new applicants and deciding upon promotions to fill the empty positions left by that terrible incident. A director's work is never done, after all. Tomorrow, however...

My schedule is quite free, by some quirk of fate, and I believe dealing with any emergencies that may come up without me will be a good test for the new staff. I have assigned several Doctors and members of security staff to take notes on their performance, of course, to ensure the test is conducted rigorously. I believe I will spend the day with Warden Liera Rossignol. We have long enjoyed our talks together, brief as they must be, and I am ever a faithful servant of our Guardian in the Mists, despite the relative unpopularity of religion in general among most of our staff. When one is perhaps the only consistent attendee of Fifth Day services, it is natural to end up quite friendly with the Warden.

I quite look forwards to sitting down with the Warden and discussing matters of theology. Perhaps we will even take lunch together? We will see how it goes. I would be terribly upset if something happened to ruin this rare opportunity.

In other news...


Lyra Doveheart set down the quill, gaze turning away from the logbook to study the ceiling with a deep sigh. Boring. So boring. Every twist and turn, every little plot, it was so dull. She could see the script written out in advance. Every action and step was meticulously planned, so that the success of her schemes was assured. She had learned from her failures after all, solved the problem of accidental breaks in character, learned who the biggest trouble makers among the staff were, who had to go, who she could reliably recruit through one method or another, and-

Still, still it all kept repeating. Still some circumstance conspired to interfere with the one conversation she actually wanted to be having. She was forced to go to such elaborate lengths just to have a single day spent with her dear Liera. It made her itch, the lack of spontaneity. But if she gave in to what she actually wanted to do, she would inevitably end up repeating it all again, caught by the twisted nature of her prison.

They had hidden the cracks well, in this Asylum of hers. Even her gaze had trouble determining where nature preceded according to the laws of reality, and where things twisted, to reveal the meddling of the empty god. In the deepest bowels of her Asylum, her experiments proceeded nonetheless. They could reset this little play every time they wanted, but her knowledge remained. She was sure she could find another crack in the wall. A real one this time. Not something they left to toy with her. She just had to avoid breaking character for as long as possible.

Lyra's gaze turned around her private office. It was not precisely opulent, but it was well appointed, as befitted the Director of a famed institution. Her primary irritation with it was that it was neatly ordered according to the desires of her character, who apparently was well known for her particularities about the arrangement. The little irritations with the order could not be corrected easily without immediately exposing herself and being forced to start over from the beginning once more. It might be a decade before she had slowly changed the arrangement to be something less frustrating.

On her back, her small bat-like wings fluttered and shifted. At least whatever clouded their eyes from truly seeing her real appearance was convenient, if nothing else. Her gaze shifted back to her desk, where she smiled at a letter that lay open on her desk, penned by her dear Liera. That had been new. Even as each repetition grew more and more dull, she still managed to surprise her now and then. Exchanging letters to supplement their regrettably short time to actually speak was quite a good idea, and one she personally wished she had thought of herself.

She checked a pocketwatch. A few more minutes yet before her next appointment. At least this time she was seeing Emery instead of someone more dull. He was always her most interesting patient. After all, his madness was closer to reality than most of the so called sane were. Still, she could not leave early. She had not spent weeks reinforcing the idea that she was punctual and did not approve of interruptions not on her schedule just to ruin it because she was a little impatient.

Maybe she could get some reading done...

With a deep sigh, Lyra settles in to await the next line in her carefully choreographed play. Far too carefully, by her reckoning. Not nearly enough room for improvisation.
Michelle Anciaux