Onoind

Onoind

The Leader/Clan Founder

Onoind is an eccentric. Though usually calm and cautious, his inquisitive nature oft gets him in troubling situations despite the warnings and insistence the clan gives him. Distant, he naturally seeks interest and entertainment elsewhere, never wanting to stay one place and thus almost never permanently present in the lair. His tendency to ignore warnings holds only his stubborn ways to blame, and while he is often quiet and mature he can be a little hard-headed if someone challenges his wants or what he feels is necessary for good. Though he often finds hardship in making smooth and meaningful conversation, he truly cares about his clan. While he may not always express this, it's generally known and understood. He is as respected as any leader should be.
---
Onoind is the clan's founder, alongside Araziela. The two never engaged in romantic relations, as is often the norm with clan progenitors, but they are plenty content with living this way. The two work as a unit to keep the clan upright and stable, and while Onoind is often away, he does an exceptionally good job for his hobbies.

Those hobbies, as it turns out, include exploring the Ghostlight Ruins. Most of the other clan members fail to understand how this could possibly be interesting or worthwhile, but Onoind is infatuated with the place. Peaceful with most of the Beastcalns that reside there, the Fae travels to and fro the area with ease and more often than not, takes souvenirs home with him. When he is attacked, though, he will try using words before attacking.

Many leave Onoind be, but some presume his odd interests and habits are do to a lack of parental influence. Given that both he and Araziela never knew a mother's touch or father's comforting words, it was rather easy for Onoind to develop into a distant, humble character. His habitual activities are often to distract himself, from what most don't think to ask. He holds the weight of a clan on his shoulders, and with only one other to help him in the responsibilities, many can understand his need to be out and alone. Naturally, his views are respected and considered by the clan equally, and both he and Araziela have become the power behind the engine. This little Fae holds the fate of an entire clan in his claws, and however odd he may be, he's doing wonderfully.

---

• Has a collection of scythes
• Much more expressive than the average fae
• Has dealt with so nany strange events/people, he is very hard to faze.
• On some days, he would disappear for a few hours. Due to his like for the ghost light Ruins, many brush it off as him visiting it. But whenever he returns, his feet are slightly scraped.
• Expect that he isn't visiting the ruins, but rather a different area...
  

THE BANQUET - Onoind's POV (Third person)


There were some days when the rigors of leading the clan got to Onoind, and he went elsewhere to take his mind off things. He particularly liked exploring the Ghostlight Ruins. So away he went....

There was someone lounging by the exit....No, not lounging, but slumped in dejected weariness. A Pearlcatcher. Onoind looked around for her pearl, but there was none.

Before he could ask “Can I help you?” she looked up at him with dull, joyless eyes. “Would you kindly follow me?” she mumbled.

Onoind was about to politely refuse; someone else could assist her. But then again...Why not follow this frail old lady? She was clearly harmless and needed help....He would waste time if he went back for the others. He reached out to her, releasing his staff as he did so. She managed to catch it for him. She was awfully quick – maybe she wasn’t as old as she looked.

And she led him away, mumbling, “Poor soul...You poor soul. He has taken a liking to you....”

What did that even mean? Was she jealous?

Ahead, he glimpsed a familiar glittering form. Mismar. Onoind knew Mismar well; they sometimes danced together. The Spiral always whispered to him not to remember those times....

Why...wasn’t he supposed to remember? All they did was dance, right? Onoind turned this over in his mind slowly and deliberately as Mismar led him into the den. There were many other dragons waiting inside, maybe dozens of them. What were they doing here? Who were they?

What was...wrong...with them?

Onoind felt a tickle in his mind: another part of himself pushing against the fog, screaming, “They aren’t moving! That one’s literally nothing but skin and bones. He’s done something to them. He’s doing something to you now. Wake up! Wake—”

Mismar swept out one paw, indicating a set table. Dragons sat around it, drooping despairingly over covered plates. They followed Onoind’s movements with hungry eyes.

The puppeteer graciously indicated that Onoind should sit beside him. His other arm stayed rigid as stone, clutching a number of fine, glittering chains.

Onoind wondered what they were for. As the dishes were uncovered, he looked around – and stopped short at what he saw.

A beautifully-arranged platter of insects had been prepared for him, and Mismar’s own plate held a grilled haunch dusted with crumbled bugs. But the Ridgeback next to Onoind...Her plate was a rusty metal slab, a pile of offal tossed carelessly onto it. Still raw...

She salivated over it even as her eyes bored into Onoind. “I was once a merchant,” she croaked. She picked up a chunk of quivering flesh and shoved it mechanically into her mouth. Her jaws champed up and down, grinding the bloody pulp to bits, even as she snarled, “I sent dragons to steal from Mismar. What a fool I was...!”

So she had double-crossed Mismar....This was her punishment? But...it was so cruel....An atrocity! Onoind looked at the next dragon, another Spiral, as he held out his paws beseechingly. His spine was bent, and though his forepaws and head still moved, the rest of him stayed paralyzed.

A cartographer. He had refused to cooperate with the puppeteer. Had Mismar broken him, too? But surely Mismar would never do that....

“Help!” A young Mirror tottered up from his seat, swaying as if with great weakness. But his voice was strong with desperation as he protested, “Sir, please, my parents made me do it. They—!”

Mismar waved a hand, and the Mirror slumped down, silent and inert. Like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

“Puppets,” Onoind thought to himself. He listened to the other dragons with growing horror and pity: They had all crossed Mismar in the past and been horrendously punished for it. He had enslaved them....But how could anybody be so cruel?

“I had a family waiting for me. But for what I did, I must dance....”

“My Guardian! You killed her! She was only trying to protect—”

“My pearl. Please, sir, at least just let me have my pearl....”

The puppeteer silenced them all with impatient flicks of the chains. Stories and grievances cut short. Poor, broken dragons... “Poor soul,” he remembered the old Pearlcatcher saying. “You poor, poor soul.” And she had said something else....

Onoind felt a chill wash over him.

“He has taken a liking to you,” the Pearlcatcher had breathed. He remembered now: countless dances with Mismar and these dragons, twirling to phantom music. Mismar had controlled him. Mismar was controlling him even now, just like these unfortunates....

Soon he would be just like them. He had to get away!

Mismar chose this moment to release him. Onoind shrieked in terror as he saw everything clearly now: the half-dead dragons, the undead ones bearing rusty platters, and all the chains held in Mismar’s claws. Soon he would be one of those wretched beasts. He would be chained to Mismar, enslaved to the puppeteer’s will!

The Ridgeback merchant caught him, claws clashing shut. Onoind squealed as his side was bruised and scratched. “Stay with ussss...” she hissed, her eyes burning red. “Staaaaayyy...”

The last word receded as if he were falling away from it. His mind retreated into the fog again. This time, it stayed put. It was more comfortable there.

~ ~ ~
The next thing Onoind knew, he was standing by the entrance. His side was scraped, so he went to Lachlan to get healed. The cantankerous dragon watched as the wounds closed. He muttered, “Best stay away from Ghostlight for a while. You keep getting hurt.”

Onoind was about to protest that he hadn’t been in Ghostlight....But if that was true, where had he been?

There were wounds on his mind now, deep wounds even Lachlan could not heal. In his nightmares, Onoind screamed, remembering unbroken chains and endless despair. But his memory of the nightmares always fled with the first whisper of morning – just as his memories always fled with Mismar’s whisper to “Forget.”

~ written by Disillusionist (254672)

~~~~~~~~

Onoind awoke with a gasp, his heart hammering in his chest, terror still filling him from the dream he had just had. As his breathing slowed, his fear faded, and he tried in vain to remember what it was that had terrified him so much. As he gazed outside, he realized it was still quite early in the morning. Hazy mist coated everything in a damp shroud, and the dim light of the sun had hardly even begun to light the sky. He stared out at all of this, feeling content once again. Whatever it had been about, it had only been a dream.

Onoind slowly stretched and got up, feeling sore and tired. It was odd, since he had slept all night, and therefore should have felt well rested. With a small shrug, he grabbed his staff and began to head for the exit of the lair. His movement caused Araziela, who was sleeping nearby, to stir. "Heading to the ruins?" She asked quietly, a look of concern on her face. "I am." He responded automatically, although the response felt wrong in a way. She sat up, and yawned. "Not another nightmare?" She asked with concern, which caused him to frown. "What are you talking about?"

The tundra gave him a confused look at this question, but Onoind had already turned away, and was slipping out of the lair. He had no idea what she meant, since he never had nightmares, but the cool morning air made him forget those troubles as he wandered in the direction of the ruins. His feet still ached from his last visit, although he couldn't at all remember what he had done to make them feel that way. An odd feeling stirred within him and he realized with a chill that he didn't remember at all what he had done yesterday. With a shudder, he made a mental note to see the clan healer. He didn't need memory issues on top of everything else.

As he walked, he admired the coolness of the forest. The bare branches of the trees around him clacked together like the bones of a skeleton, and he shivered at the chill that hung in the air. Something felt off about the woods around him, but he pushed the thought away and continued on his walk.

~*~

Mismar watched with a dark grin as Onoind walked towards the place where his puppets waited. They watched from the trees, their stark white bones blending in with the white of the bare branches. They clacked against the wood as they waited, all of them blank and hollow-eyed. The ones who had not yet become completely bone waited with him in the underbrush, watching their quarry with silent anticipation.

By his feet sat his newest creation, still living, but under an enchantment so heavy that it likely couldn't even remember who it had once been. It was a small, nearly hatchling sized dragon, unusual for its species. It was a skydancer, and its chains were much smaller than the usual. It wore simple robes, clothes that barely covered the clinking metal. However, beautiful white roses adorned its body, and lace was draped delicately all over it. It sat by his feet like a statue, unmoving and silent, ready to do his bidding.

Mismar flicked his write upward, and the dragon sprung to life. With gentle hand motions, he manuevered the puppet so that it moved towards Onoind, walking behind as silently as a cat. The fae paused for a moment, listening, and so did the puppet. It was not yet time for him to know what awaited him.

As they both continued, the puppets in the trees followed, slowly sliding along throughout the branches, creeping further towards the ruins beside their unwilling victim. Mismar delighted in finding new ways to terrorize the fae, easily biding his time until the day the smaller dragon finally decides to become his willing puppet. The thought made him smile as he continued silently along. Their dance would take place somewhere unique today- the ruins his victim loved so much would now become their stage. The idea sent a thrill of excitement through him, and this feeling grew as he saw the dark stone of the ruins directly ahead.

Finally, Onoind was positioned in front of the ruins, unaware, preparing to enter. Mismar flicked his wrist, and the puppet, which had been dutifully following, sprang into action. It began to wail, a sound that was unearthly in the grief that the dragon poured into it. Onoind spun around, afraid at first, then concerned. He bent down and began to speak to the puppet, and Mismar watched with a dark grin as the fae nodded and took the skydancer's abnormally small hand. It led him into the ruins, and Mismar flicked his wrist. His puppets climbed down from the trees, and then followed as he entered the ruins after the fae. It was nearly time for the show.

He could hear the montone voice of the fae ahead, and the quieter tones of his puppet. He listened with caution, unwilling to let his new toy spoil anything before it could happen. However, his enchantment held, and they spoke only of how the skydancer had become separated from its parents, and how it was afraid to find them itself. The fae was unfazed, and Mismar felt a strange stirring in his chest as he stared at the two of them. The feeling disturbed him, and he quickly shook himself. Nothing would ruin this evening, not even uninvited feelings.

It wasn't long before it was clear that Onoind had become hopelessly lost. He had never delved so deep into the ruins, never taken so many different twists and turns. By the time they reached the final room, he was looking desperately around, keeping a firm hand on the puppet. He needed the skydancer to stay if he was to escape.

With a flick of his wrist, Mismar caused his puppet to pull away, freeing itself from Onoind's tight grasp. It scurried back to where he waited, in the blackness of the hallway, outside of the room where the fae stood in silence. He had reached out for the quickly escaping dragon when it had left him, but now he stood still, a look of confusion flashing across his face. No doubt a buried memory had surfaced momentarily, leaving him wondering the true nature of his trip here. He would soon find out.

A rustling and clacking of skin, leather, and bone arose from the darkness as Mismar entered, an entourage of puppets following behind. The flurry of emotions that passed over the smaller dragon's face passed quickly, and he was preparing to defend himself when Mismar motioned for him to be quiet. The lace-draped puppet crept forward, unnoticed by Onoind, while the two dragons stared each other down. Mismar was smiling, a hint of malice in his eyes. "You are mine." He whispered.

The fae drooped, his eyes glazing over slightly, before coming to focus on the other dragon. Mismar's smile widened into a devious grin, and he took Onoind's hand in his own. The puppets circled them and began to strike up a devilish tune, while the skydancer reached forward and took the fae's staff. The grinding and clacking of bones surrounded them, a macabre​ beat underlying the louder rustling of leathery, rotten wings, and the scraping of flesh. Mismar had decided before setting out that this would be suitable for the place they would be in- instruments would distract from the fearful and overwhelming disturbing aura of the ruins. He pulled the fae closer, for once wholly focused on the dance at hand. His newest puppet conducted, its lace glimmering in the pale light that crept in through cracks in the ceiling.

Their dance was unusually fast, and they spun together in a whirl of wings and claws. At one point, Mismar relinquished control, and a twisted sense of joy filled him as he saw the fae's face change to confusion at the change in his ability to move. As the macabre sounds around them reached their peak, and the clacking beats of the bones reached their height, Mismar leaned in close to the fae, relishing in the fear that filled his face. "You are mine."

The words seemed to stir something within the fae, and he became panicked, pulling away, kicking at the other dragon, tears filling his eyes. Mismar released the dragon, and he fell backwards to the ground, looking around at the looming puppets. Skeletal faces peered down at him, the beat of their clacking having devolved to nothing but shuffling. A fae with rotted skin crept over to him, offering him a hand to stand. He took it, stunned, too afraid to do much else. As the fae helped him up, a piece of skin fell away from around his eye, revealing muscle that reeked of decay. Onoind scrambled backward, knocking into a puppet that was only bone, causing it to rattle. He sobbed aloud and wrapped his small arms around his body, longing for the ordeal to be over. His small body shook as he cried, rocking back and forth, his mind tormented by the images of the dead that stood around him. He flinched as the crowd of puppets parted, terrified of what would come next.

Mismar walked toward the fae, his puppets moving aside so that he could easily reach him. He felt contentment at the terror he had just witnessed, and he motioned for his puppets to help the dragon to his feet. He led the shaking form of the fae to the doorway, his puppets dragging their reluctant charge the entire way. By the time they reached the exit, blood was leaking from his scraped and bloodied feet and knees. The puppets around him leaned close, inhaling the scent of it, their glazed eyes becoming more alert as memories of life flowed through them. Mismar quickly pulled the fae away from them, unwilling to let them devour him in some twisted attempt to gain their life back.

He turned the fae around, facing him toward the door. The dragon could barely stand, and Mismar took his staff from the small skydancer and placed it in the fae's hands. He was disappointed to let him go so soon, but he knew how far to go, and he had nearly crossed the line. The shaking fae was barely even conscious, so terrified and haunted by what he had seen that he was mumbling under his breath. Mismar gently placed the skydancer puppet in Onoind's hands. "Keep an eye on him." He whispered, and the puppet drooped into his hands, seemingly lifeless.

Mismar stepped back into the shadows of the ruins, and waved his hands, releasing Onoind. The fae jerked upward, nearly dropping the puppet in his hand, before looking around in dim confusion. He gazed down at the puppet in his hands, and looked around, quietly wondering aloud how he had gotten there, and why he was holding a puppet. Mismar watched with pleasure, enjoying the confused state that the dragon was in. When he was this way, he was vulnerable- so easy to manipulate. It was like a forbidden pleasure, one that he could not claim yet.

As the dragon set off towards their lair, still confused and stumbling, Mismar grinned and watched him. "One day." He whispered. The fae looked around uneasily as he continued home to the lair, eventually becoming hidden by the underbrush around them. "You will be mine." Mismar whispered aloud. His promise carried an air of definity about it. He would stop at nothing to get Onoind, to own him for himself. "You are mine." With a cunning grin, he slipped silently into the forest after his fae. Not a trace was left of their escape, aside from a single blood trail that led deep into the ruins. Nobody would ever know of his secrets- and he liked it that way. With more plans already formulating in his mind, he trailed Onoind. Nothing would stand in his way.

~by Foxe

~~~~~~~

“So, what are the plans for the clan over the next few months?”

A pale man with faded turquoise hair lounged in his shop, a length of strings held between his fingers as he delicately untangles them. A response to his question comes from another, a slightly older yet smaller man with dark skin and black hair, a staff held loosely between his hands. He looked dazed as he spoke, a sign that something was not quite correct.

“A section of the library is being relocated temporarily, one of the support pillars gave out and we almost lost important documents.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, more residences are being built, there is an increase of people moving from another region, something has been bothering that populace.”

“Interesting. A shame it would have been to lose anything from the library when so many are joining us. It will be nice to see new faces, add them to my…’scrapbooks’.” The shop owner looks sideways, to one of the walls lined with shelves. Upon those shelves sat almost countless marionettes, brilliant, wooden, and lifeless.

A special one sat on the stand beside him, it’s every detail matching to the guest, its strings in the pale man’s hand. He looks back to the darker, looking him over. “Go, Onoind, return to your tasks. If anything comes up that may involve me, let me know.”

Onoind nods, “yes Mismar,” he complies, standing from his chair and turning to leave. Once out, the blankness that had shrouded him dissipated, and he lacks the memory of when he had entered and stayed in the shop.

That was how the man controlled people, he spoke to them in whispers when they met, entwining them with unbreakable, invisible bonds. Anything could be controlled; their thoughts, actions, emotions, memory. A portion of the town he currently dwelled was under his power, and when it came time that one of his puppets had to die, he carried it out, one way or another, leaving no trace that he was behind their tragic, untimely death.

As Mismar watched Onoind leave, he let his thoughts muse around. He seemed to rather favor this specific other, something about their personality, their persistence for truth acted almost like a lure for the mighty puppeteer. Every hero and every villain had their weakness. This mastermind wasn't quite sure just yet if this clan leader had become his. He hoped not, because if so, a useful life was about to be lost to an agonizing end.

*~~~*

Time past as it usually did, Nothing out of the ordinary or unexpected coming to pass. No annoyances or inconveniences for the puppeteer. Or so it was thought.

Indeed, a good number of people had joined the town in the passing months, a good sign for their economy and workforce. The library was successfully repaired, and all soiled documents restored to their prime. More marionetes had been added to the collection of the shop.

But it was not long before trouble followed. If anything, it was too soon than it should have. Apparently, the crime ring of the other region was not easy to make give up after their prey escapes.

They followed, and brought the chaos to compliment.

A sound like a dulled explosion sounded, and Mismar comes out from his shop to investigate. A cloud of dirt and dust rise up in the distance, but no smoke. He suspected it was one of the recently built homes, broken to the ground. But it didn't feel natural to him, more intentional than a simple construction mistake.

Moments later he glances over to spot the dark skinned Onoind rushing past towards the settling cloud of dust. ’Practical, of course that man would rush to help. It is who he is, after all,’ Mismar thought, before leisurely following after.

Most of the people had been smart and evacuated from the area. Those who saw what happened did not bother to whisper their differing news.

“I think I saw Bandits! Must have followed someone here...”
“Some kid was playing near a support beam of an unfinished house, what a bother...”
“I’m sure I spotted a glint of metal, it wasn't something from the house, more like a weapon…”
“Was it an accident? I hope it was, I don't want the outlaws to find us…”

Whatever the truth may have been, it has passed and whatever matters happens now.

Mismar goes unseen through the people, keeping to the shadows and places where eyes were not dwelling. He finally gets to the area of the incident, and what is there was not what he wished to see. Quite the opposite, he would wish that his eyes and ears deceived, and the scene was not to be.

Some of the words of the people had been correct; there was indeed what seemed to be bandits or outlaws, and indeed there were weapons being held. Also among them were a few of the town’s guard, defending more of the still-standing houses as they were attached. But it was not this that bothered the puppeteer so, no. The town leader, Onoind, was in the middle of the fighting.

The man was stupid, thinking he could rush in like that with only a staff held in hand. Mismar thought himself even stupider for finding himself to care about it. But he was no fighter, he did not have the option to go barreling in weapon first. He retreated, skirting around the area and weaving his way between the buildings.

Mismar watched as many of the guards fell and the bloodlusting criminals advanced. He came up behind a group of them, taking one by the chin and throat, whispering toxic words to their ear. Letting go, he watched as his fresh puppet followed after his companions, then turned on them, slaughtering swiftly.

He willed the outlaw the continue on, to search for more of their fellows and do the same as they had just done. Mismar remained hidden, yet followed, to be sure to maintain his control though he did not doubt its grip.

Then he saw Onoind fall.

He was in a different place, having overcome his previous opponents. But now it was not enough. He had tired, and was too stubborn to fall back.

Mismar wasn’t sure if it seemed to occur in slow motion, or in the blink of an eye. Nor does he quite remember if he had yelled out, only that he let all his thoughts turn to the town leader. The favored puppet.

A surge of thought made the bandit under his control run forward, and attach every man in sighs. He didn't care if it was friend or foe, he felt that all he needed to do this moment was to get to Onoind.

He denied to himself whatever it was he was feeling, and only went forward to the other, checking by sight so see if he was alive, then lifting him as best he could from the ground. Leaving the massacre behind, he took the town leader to the healer as fast as his feet would carry.

*~~~*

Mismar waited with silent impatience, not knowing of the exact wounds or state of health Onoind now held. It was frustrating, but he waited all the same. Trying to rush it may just cost a life. An important life.

He stops, an eerie calm coming over him as he questions his thoughts.

’Why? Why do I seem to care for this man? He is nothing more than the head of a town, a useful puppet in my hands. Yes, i simply do not want to suffer the loss of such an asset. If anything is going to be his demise, it will be of my picking, and no other.’

He recomposes himself back to his usual state of almost lazy relaxation. He denies to himself any thought or feelings of a deeper caring for the life that he allowed himself to save. He left the place of the healers, heading back to his own shop. Talk came from all around of what had happened only a few hours before, no mention of his hand at all being in it at any point. Nothing more than a tragedy.

Yes, nothing more than a tragedy.

Nothing more than dirt and dust covering a puppeteer's emotions like a sheet.

~bySilverWhiteRaven

~~~~~~~

It was dusk, and many visitors had come and gone. The last of them, a weary old lady, hobbled off with a smile on her lined, weathered face.

“Let me help you,” offered Onoind. He took her elbow and guided her to the entrance of the lair. It was the old lady’s first visit here, and she was very grateful for how she had been treated; the young therapist had helped ease her pain. “It’s been so long since my children were all taken from me. Earlier, just drinking tea and cuddling with those darling cats, I could forget...if only for a little while.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Onoind said dubiously. The old lady’s words rang a warning bell in his mind.

They had by then reached the entrance to the lair, and the old woman managed to straighten up and smile at Onoind. “Still, sometimes it’s not good to forget....I will certainly remember you, sir; you were very kind to this old lady. Perhaps I will be back....” She turned away.

“Goodbye,” Onoind said. He waved and watched as she and her retinue walked off.

Aiskiata was winding down for the day. Cups and saucers were stacked and taken to the sink. Onoind helped him clean up, and the therapist thanked him effusively. The clan leader was a bit spacey, though. He had been mulling the old woman’s words over....He still had huge gaps in his memory that were yet to be filled. It was doubly frustrating for him because he couldn’t even remember when they’d started. Months ago...or had it been last year? What had caused them?

“So many things happening, one after the other. And I can barely wrap my head around some of them, too.” Onoind frowned irritably. “Perhaps that’s the reason why. Things have been so weird recently, my brain has been fried.”

Indeed, a number of things had been tampering with Onoind’s mind as of late. There had been that little boy with the white hair and sharp, shining teeth....He had wanted to play. Onoind had found him in the Ghostlight Ruins, surrounded by purple smoke....Or wait, wasn’t that the other boy, the one with...the flower? The storyteller? Had it been the other way around? Or were they one and the same?

Onoind felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and into Aiskiata’s concerned face. The youth was asking, “Sir, will you be joining us for dinner?”

The clan leader declined with a wave. “I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather recently....I think I’ll just stay in my room.”

“I see. Perhaps I can help...?”

Onoind smiled back. “You’ve done more than enough for today, Aiskiata, thank you. But if the trouble persists and Lachlan’s yammering won’t fix it, I’ll stop by and have some of your teas. I’ll certainly be able to use a cup of the stuff after talking to Lachlan, whether or not I’m sick.”

Aiskiata chuckled in agreement, and then he looked around guiltily, as if afraid the vitriolic old healer would hear him. Onoind left him to close up the shop. Ever since Aiskiata had set it up, more visitors had been stopping by. They were in need of comfort, or else they just needed a place to relax....Aiskiata managed his teashop almost singlehandedly. At the end of each day, he was exhausted. Onoind had thought about visiting him and asking for a cup of tea after hours, but he didn’t want to impose. He could have joined the crowd of customers who arrived each day, but always told himself, “They need it more than I do.”

“Do they?” something challenged him, deep within his weary mind. “Don’t you matter as much as they do? Half of the time you haven’t even met those people. And you don’t know their names....”

Such ugly thoughts....Onoind was unaccustomed to them. Still, it was easy to be angry at the world when one was tired. He’d get a nourishing meal first and then eat on his own; at least then he would be able to sleep.

Two hours later, Onoind was ready for bed. Although he was full, he still had a terrible headache....He recalled all of Aiskiata’s customers; how peaceful they looked once they’d had their cups of tea! Onoind thought about going over to the therapist’s room and demanding a cup of tea right now—

“No, no, he’s even more exhausted than I am! I should talk to him in the morning—”

“Bah, in the morning he’ll be hounded by a horde of customers and you’ll be hard-pressed to weasel in amongst them,” that restless, irritable part of him hissed. Onoind found himself grinding his teeth as the thought continued, “You’re the clan leader. You should assert yourself more.”

“He’s new here. He hasn’t gotten the hang of things yet—”

“All the more reason to explain to him that you, the Clan Leader, take precedence over any of those other beggars! Let him become aware of who you are! He should—”

Onoind heaved a very loud sigh. He passed a hand over his face. As he did so, a movement caught his eye. He could see himself in the mirror, and he could’ve sworn his reflection had just given him a wink.

“I’m tired,” he reminded himself, quite honestly. “I don’t need a wink—I need forty winks. Time to sleep, Onoind.”

“Indeed,” that wry and cynical part of him replied. Onoind tried to push it out of his mind as he snuffed out the lights and then lay down. The darkness descended....He would find relief in sleep, he was sure.

But as it turned out, he was wrong. Even sleep was no refuge for him, for if he dreamed deeply enough, the scabbed-over memories emerged. “Forget,” a soft voice whispered, but then the clock would wind back, revealing what he’d forgotten: battered corpses turning to ash, a room of brilliant white. He heard the rattle of windpipes and the clatter of bony claws. His right hand hurt....Something was clutched in it. He knew it was a sword.

Further back, and further—in his dreams, he trembled, but he couldn’t move beyond that. Sleep paralysis, or something else? He wanted to cry out, but something was wrapped around his throat....It was cold, so cold it burned. He reached up with trembling hands. He slid his fingers beneath his cloak, towards his neck—

And there it was, the necklace. Iron or gold? He couldn’t even remember something as simple as that....Why could he not remember anything?

“Who put this on me? What is it?” he demanded. Even in the nightmare, his head spun and his heart increased its frenetic pace....He’d had that sensation before. The sensation of being trapped and helpless, yet fighting with all his might to stay in control. And yet, failing...

“And really, what’s so bad about failure?” The words formed in his mind, seemingly of their own accord. The fingers scrabbling at the collar slowed down and then froze.

“You’re the Clan Leader, and yet you won’t assert yourself....Well, maybe you don’t really want that role, eh, Onoind? Admit it: It’s nice to have someone else in control for now. When it all becomes too much for you, just sit back, relax, and let someone else do the leading....”

And even in the dream, Onoind blinked. “Wake up!” he tried to tell himself. “I have to wake up—” but he couldn’t. Something wouldn’t let him.

As he became aware of this fact, so, too, did he become aware of that other person. Within the shadows, he appeared: a heavy black cloak, a staff in his hand...Onoind stared at him with growing horror. “Who are you?”

“It’s nice of you to finally notice me, but I’m really hurt that you don’t recognize me. I mean, considering—” And the other pulled back his hood. The face that stared back at Onoind was unmistakably his own.

“I’m you.” The other bared his teeth in a smile that was not at all Onoind’s. “Hey there.”

~ ~ ~

There was another Hidden Haven dweller who did not join the others for supper. This was hardly surprising, for he fed on dreams.

It took Phermelmim some time to rouse himself. Ever since Aiskiata’s arrival, he’d been hovering around the garden, waiting for the guests. Some of them fell asleep after their cups of tea. They slumbered in the sunlight, often cradling a cat or two, and Phermelmim would sample their dreams. They tasted just like Aiskiata’s blends: soft and sweet and warm.

He would digest these snacks and then begin looking for more substantial meals, stirring again only long after the sun had gone down. Fluttering around the lair, stealing his fellows’ dreams...Some clanmates were off-limits, but there were a few who didn’t mind. He could pick out their dreams, almost as if he were picking up the scents of food being prepared. He would choose a particularly enticing scent and park himself outside the sleeper’s room. Then the sleeper would begin dreaming, and Phermelmim would dine.

One of Phermelmim’s favorite dreamers was Onoind. The clan leader was tolerant of his visits, though he had requested that Phermelmim not speak of his dreams to other people. Phermelmim could understand why. The clan leader was plagued by dark and disturbing dreams; he’d had so many of them as of late. Phermelmim had actually avoided him for a short time because of this. He had had to rescue Onoind from a strange being who’d made him regress to childhood, and the events had made the dream-eater sort of queasy. Sumptuous meals were well and good, but only in moderation. Otherwise he felt as if his head would explode.

He judged he’d left Onoind alone long enough. As he billowed towards the clan leader’s door, he tentatively sampled the air....

And he slowed down and stopped. Something was wrong. There was another scent, sour and foul, overlaying Onoind’s usual skein of dreams. Phermelmim fluttered his wings in distress. The previously rich dream that had beckoned to him was vanishing fast, like a dish that was beginning to spoil.

Would he have to rescue his leader again? He would find out.

~ ~ ~

“You can’t be me! I’m me!” Onoind protested—to no avail. The reflection of him laughed sardonically at his pitiful objections. “And yet here I am, with your face and form, sharing your body and your very mind,” the other retorted scornfully.

Onoind blanched. He realized that what the other was saying was true. When the other sneered, Onoind felt his own face twisting. He felt the waves of disdain and scorn streaming from his other self.

Other...self? “Who are you?”

The other laughed. Another man might have answered, “I’ve already told you that,” but linked as they were, he knew what Onoind meant. “It’s very awkward for us to say ‘you’ or ‘the other’ like this. Why don’t you call me ‘Ondie’?”

“Ondie,” Onoind repeated, dumbfounded. He still couldn’t believe this was happening. “Why are you here?”

“I’ve always been here. When you were a child who didn’t know any better, I was already there, talking to you. I was the one who told you it wouldn’t hurt Araziela too much if you stole her toys, or that it wouldn’t be too much trouble if you ignored Soren’s remonstrations—just this once. You did notice me and take me seriously many times...but then, do you know what happened?”

Onoind shook his head.

“You grew up.” Ondie snickered. “You developed what we all call a ‘conscience’. It’s the part of you that takes over as you grow, telling you to do the right thing.” He rolled his eyes at this. “Eventually it became a part of your personality and it—you—stuffed me back into the darkness.

“But the thing is, Onoind...consciences are weak. When you have a conscience, there’s only so much it can handle. Commit a few mistakes, and it buckles: steal something, tell a lie, or murder a clanmate...The conscience shatters under these little tiffs, till eventually it withers away and is gone. And then...” He spread his arms and grinned. “You end up with a charming fellow like me!”

“But I’ve never killed anyone,” Onoind objected. And then he had to swallow a scream as Ondie suddenly stepped up close to him, violet eyes blazing.

“Yes - you - have,” Ondie snarled, enunciating each word. “Remember the white room, Onoind, and the sword in your hand....”

“No...” Onoind didn’t notice he was already collapsing—buckling and shattering, as Ondie had said. He sank to his knees, his fists against his temples. “No, I can’t remember—!”

But he did, and now the memories welled up, brilliant and painful as broken glass. Mirrored shards slicing into Onoind again and again, showing him a twisted reflection of himself...

And that twisted reflection was there. He bent over Onoind, patting his shoulders, his arms. “There, there...See, that’s why I’m here. I’m strong enough to endure it, so you should let me take your place....”

His voice was soothing. Onoind was not soothed. “You’re a monster....You can’t be trusted! I can see into your mind—”

Ondie rolled his eyes. “Yes, that’s the pesky part.”

“You care nothing for our clan. You’ll leave them at the mercy of...” Onoind broke off, coughed. The iron band around his neck tightened. “Mismar,” he finally rasped. “They’ll be at his mercy. He’ll enslave them all—”

“I don’t believe he’ll do that.” Ondie, in contrast, was unbothered by his collar. He was stroking it fondly. “He’s having too much fun with us. I can respect that.” And he grinned again. “I think I feel the same way.”

It was becoming too much to handle. Onoind fought to stay conscious, even as the air was squeezed out of his throat. “You’re condoning...that...abomination...?”

The last thing he heard was Ondie’s chuckle: “He’s...shall we say...good with people? You gotta love a guy who knows how to take control.”

~ ~ ~

Onoind awoke the next day with a sore throat and a terrible headache. He went to wash his face, and then he lifted his head to stare wearily at the mirror. His expression was twisted into a sardonic smile, and a cold light glittered behind his eyes.

“I’m here,” the other voice whispered. “I’ll always be here.”

There was a reason Phermelmim had not attempted to save Onoind, a reason he’d retreated in terror instead of charging into the dream to save his leader. He had heard the voices, glimpsed the visions. He now understood the full import of the darkness in Onoind’s mind. It heralded a change even more titanic than the arrival of the Strangers, of the other not-people—for now the Hidden Haven had a reason to fear the leader of their clan.
~ written by Disillusionist

---