Saskia » Lair » Lucy

Lucy

(#68003506)

Level 1 Nocturne

Familiar

Pinpush Mirror Doll

Energy: 50/50

Personal Style

Scene

Physical Attributes

Battle Stats

Measurements

Length

0.87 m

Wingspan

0.70 m

Weight

37.82 kg

Genetics

Tarnish
Stitched

Ginger
Morph

Antique
Smirch

Hatchday

Mar 15, 2021
(3 years)

Breed

Hatchling
Nocturne

Eye Type

Earth
Glowing

Level 1 Nocturne

EXP: 0 / 245

STR

AGI

DEF

QCK

INT

VIT

MND

Lineage

Parents

Offspring

none

Biography

Timeless treasures. Generations of hatchlings and their playthings. A long forgotten doll, covered in dust and cobwebs, sits in the attic awaiting a new playmate. No one is sure why this toy was abandoned and locked away up here. But in the darkest part of the night, when no one is looking, the eyes begin to glow. An innocent child's beloved stuffed toy?

Or... a haunted doll?

By RaiStarDragon

By InkwardlyChaotic

By kibeth; work in progress.

Adorable work in progress by kibeth

By kibeth; art coming to life!

By kibeth

Side note: I absolutely love how the secondary gene, morph, looks like little ghosts haunting the background of Lucy in kibeth's art!

By librariesrpunk

By Albtraum22

By Macabrecabra

By SairentoTsuki

By Fairycatrainbow

By HurricaneWinds

By Koyako

By TsarinaTorment

By SoulsAurora

L U C Y

Beloved Toy... or Haunted Doll?

L U C Y

A doll sits in the attic window, its head tilted towards the walkway leading up to the house. Thin brittle hands lay resting delicately in its lap, almost pensively. Patiently. A doll left only for a moment while the child left to play.
There is a hint of mold in the attic, of mildew. The faint breeze through the open window stirring dust motes and stained coverings of moth-eaten furniture. Spiderwebs curl beneath the ceiling, the rafter corners, like tendrils and vines seeking out all the hidden nooks and crannies.
And then, in the distance- voices.
“This is it!”
“This?” Disgust is laced in the high nasally voice. Revulsion. “It looks pretty…”
“Abandoned?”
“I was going to say gross. But yeah, that works too.” A skittering of rocks comes loose, the shift of gravel beneath the soles of boots. “We’re actually going in this thing? Pretty sure we’d catch something in there.” The porch groans beneath their weight, the smattering of too loud steps on the old, slanted wood. “Like tetanus. God, look at that rust.”
“Quit you whining. C’mon, it won’t take that long.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The house exhales as the door downstairs swings open, the floorboards creaking. Their voices fade then grow, their footsteps painting a path through the house. Moving past the sitting room that lays in ruins, past the kitchen that hasn’t been lit in eighty years.
“Looks pretty normal for a haunted house.”
“Gah! Spider!”
“Shut up.”
And finally… the creak of the upstairs landing, a muttered curse.
“Hey, there’s something over there!”
The moon shifts beneath the cover of clouds, the shadows darkening in the attic room. And between one breath and another, the doll smiles.

Nyx
She found it among the boxes one day. All the packed crates and leftover junk that no one else wanted. Nyx had never been all that close to this family member. Had only known of them through snatches of stories and off-hand comments, so when they’d passed… Nyx never really thought much of it.
She wandered through the empty rooms of a person she didn’t know, all the tiny minute details of someone else’s life, looked at all the stuff that her family was tearfully dispersing between them. Nothing held sentimental value to her, nothing stood out. So as the masses left and it was just her, shuffling through old papers, looking through old clothes and apparel that would never be worn again, she found it.
Nestled in the farthest corner of the old trunk, buried beneath years worth of clothes, was a little doll. It was cute, in an abstract way. Soft and plush, velvet worn smooth by gentle hands. A well loved toy.
“What’s this?” Nyx asked, and her great-aunt, one of the people still rooting through the supplies, glanced over.
“Eh… some doll they had. Not quite sure where they got it from, but you can keep it if you want.”
Nyx looked down at the doll. She didn’t have a use for a doll. She was far too old for one. And yet…
Yet…
The doll was cradled between her hands, its head resting against her thumb. She pictured it sitting beside her mantelpiece, beside her nightstand or tucked in bed like a little guardian angel, and Nyx pulled it close.
“Yeah,” she said, “I’ll take it.”
After all, it’s just a doll. What harm could it do?

The doll waits for its owner to come home. It waits and waits and waits. It knows its owner will come back, she always has before. She’ll come and smile at the doll sitting at the table where she’d left it, listing slightly to the left and its head flopping to the side. She’ll pick it up and pull it close, whispering and cooing about how cute it is, how much of a darling it is.
And the doll will smile and be happy, warm and content. It had a home. It had someone to love it.
Sometimes the owner had people over. Neighbours who hissed disparaging remarks, or troubled townsfolk asking too many nosey questions. Its owner always hurried them out the doorway, slamming the door behind them and resting her face in her hands.
Sometimes, after the day’s out, its owner would return with tears in the corners of her eyes, shaking her head and pulling the doll close to her chest. The owner whispered that it was loved. The owner whispered that she was worried about what was going on. The owner whispered that she didn’t mean for any of it to happen.
None of this meant anything to the doll. The doll was cradled with gentle hands, its fur stroked by delicate fingers.
And the doll was happy. The owner would return home.
So the doll waits.
It waits.
It waits…
…it waits.
…it waits….

Spectra
It’ll be fun, Sage had said, and maybe it was Spectra’s fault that she had such a hard time saying no. Maybe it was her fault because whenever Sage dangled the next adventure, the next big thing, in front of her face, Spectra always had such a hard time declining. Just imagine! said Sage. The next great mystery! Maybe we’ll be the first ones to solve it!
It didn’t matter that her husband had complained after their previous trip, had said countless times that even though he loved her and supported her escapades, that didn’t mean he had to come with too. But Spectra had wheedled and begged, and he’d only relented because she’d promised that that trip would be their last time for at least six months.
It had barely been two.
Even so… the idea was to tantalizing, so intriguing. A mysterious haunted house that only appeared once every hundred years. A house that others said made people disappear. That to enter it was at your own peril.
The group had gone to plenty of those before, and though half of them were false and nothing more than a tourist trap, something about this one seemed different.
They stood at the edge of the house’s property, the wind lashing at the trees and the rain battering down on the dilapidated roof. The usual, stereotypical start to any horror movie.
“Spooky,” said Trista, looking unconcerned as she perched nearby, wings fluttering absently in the shrieking gale. “We doing this or just gonna stand in the rain all night?”
It certainly looked like a haunted house. The windows were boarded up, the stairs leading up to the porch were broken and splintered, and there was an edge of…something. Some feeling, some weight, as if they were not alone.
Spectra shivered and pushed the thought aside. It wasn’t real evidence, feeling as if there was something there. Her husband had told her multiple times. Just her mind playing tricks on her, just her thoughts getting the best of her. If you thought something was in your closet, you can start imagining it until it feels real, but that doesn’t mean it is.
It was just an old, dusty house as Fintan always said. Filled with all the usual creaks and bumps in the night. Another fun expedition where they gasped and flinched and laughed at how jumpy they all were, and then come home to chat and check off yet another overhyped haunted house from their list.
“Yeah,” said Spectra. “Let’s go.”
When the footsteps appear at the top of the landing, they are wrong.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Its body itches in all the wrong places, and the room is too drafty, too cold. There are tears in its seams that only it can feel. Phantom pains, pins and needles all across its limbs and extremities. And through it all… a dragon. They amble in without a care, disturbing her owner’s place with all the eloquence of a two-headed fish, fingers trailing through dust and steps too heavy.
The hands that pick it up are all wrong, the grip too tight instead of gentle, the face too sharp instead of round.
“Cute, isn’t it?” says the person- not its owner, not its owner. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong-
Its head lolls to the side, the world tilting on its axis. There are other people here, other dragons and players to laugh at its plight. To tear it away from its home and warmth. More audience members come to bear witness to its misery.
Wrong, it screams. Wrong, wrong, wrong!
“I might take it home,” the person continues, their fingers too rough with callouses, their voice too pitched, too wrong.
“You sure? It looks like it’ll fall apart at any moment.”
“Yeah, but… I don’t know. Something about it calls to me.”
“If you say so.”

Wrong.
The doll screams. It screams and screams and screams and no one hears. It yearns and aches and breaks because where where where-
Not mine. Not mine. Not mine. Where-
It is wrong.

Sage
Sage never told anyone the real reason she wanted to come here. It wasn’t something she liked advertising. Everyone knew she had a son disappear, and that altogether wasn’t all that unusual. Dragons came and went all the time, some to serve their deities and leaving without another word, others moving to other flights and other lairs or some manner of things.
Disappearances were commonplace.
Disappearing in one particular place with a handful of others- on the other hand- was abnormal.
But no matter how Sage searched the rundown house, rummaged through the cupboards much too small to house a dragon, finding cobwebs and undisturbed piles of dust, there was nothing. No sign of him or his friends. No sign of anyone except them.
Trista lurked on the other side of the room, flitting to and fro like and agitated butterfly even as she showed nothing but boredom for the entire expedition.
Upstairs, there was the soft creak of footsteps, the low rumble of voices as Spectra and Fintan conversed in quiet tones.
“You’re looking for something?”
Sage stilled, breath catching in her throat for a moment, before she shook her head, closing yet another drawer that held yet more disappointment. “No,” she said, turning away. “I just thought this would be more haunted.”
“Hn.” Trist said noncommittally. “Yeah. Seems like another bust.”
There was a crash from upstairs, the very foundation of the house shaking, and Trista glanced up at the sound of muffled swearing filtering down to them. “Sounds like they’re having fun,” she said drily, before hacking a cough, waving a hand through the dust cloud that had fallen from the rafters. “Argh!” Then, “Oh, hey, there’s something here.”
“More dust and spiders?” Sage asked, but followed Trista’s gaze nonetheless.
There, hidden between the rafters and on the edge of the frame, a single word was written in rusted red, its letters crooked and slanted as if a hatchling had written it.
HELP.
“Ah,” Sage breathed, unable to tear her gaze away, a lump welling in her throat. “That’s-“
“Wow,” said Trista, completely insouciantly as if she were commenting on the weather. “That’s some low-hanging horror movie prop right there. The last house we went to had scarier stuff than that.”
“Right,” said Sage, swallowing, forcibly tearing her eyes away from the familiar handwriting. It was just a coincidence, right? Plenty of people had handwriting like his. It didn’t mean anything. It was just coincidence, right?
Right?
“Let’s see if Spectra and Fintan are okay.”
It screams.
“Oh God!”
The fingers jerk, the grip tightens suffocatingly, and the doll feels something tear and give, a horrible screeching noise because it’s wrong and -and-
There’s a horrendous ripping noise, and the grip slackens and breaks, the doll rolling and flipping through the air before landing with a soft thump on the hardwood floor between them. The sound cuts off instantly. The silence is deafening.
“What?”
“Nothing- nothing. I thought I heard-“ A couch, a pause. “It’s nothing. I’m imagining stuff.”
Something nudges the doll- the edge of a boot- and it’s flipped over to stare at the two dragons, its head limp like a marionette string.
“I… I don’t think its good to keep it around.”

There’s a hole. There’s a hole and it’s wrong and bad, and worse. It’s a hole that sucks and pulls and destroys everything and it needs it filled. It needs, it needs-
Their faces blur above it, their words slurring, and the doll finally stirs.
It hungers.

Fintan
There was something strange about the doll. Fintan never liked putting faith in feelings or gut instincts, that raised the hairs on the back of his neck when it was nothing more than a chill breeze. But Fintan felt something even as Spectra went on and on about how cool it was. He felt it when Spectra picked it up, its body covered in dust and spiderwebs clinging to its arms and legs, a shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
In the end, the doll was just a doll.
Fintan trusted his wife. He loved his wife. And if she had some odd interest in the doll, so be it.
And then she began drifting away, her voice trailing off in the middle of sentences, her eyes losing focus.
Fintan knew something was wrong when Spectra stopped. Stopped eating, stopped drinking, stopped sleeping.
“Spectra,” Fintan implored, taking her hand and feeling something ache inside him when she barely responded. “Spectra, honey, I’m worried about you.” But Spectra only smiled robotically at him, only went through the motions of what normal life should like and not what she was like.
It’s the doll, some part of Fintan whispered, even though he thought the words were false because it was just a doll. Dolls didn’t turn people into living husks. Dolls didn’t do anything except sit there and look pretty.
Fintan watched as Spectra turned slowly towards him, a marionette on strings and a vacant stare, cooing sweet nothings that meant nothing to anyone but her.
Dolls didn’t reach across miles and miles, somehow still grasping hold of his wife like an angry burr, dragging deep fissures and claws and too tight grip.

B I O G R A P H Y

It doesn’t happen instantly. It never does. It’s a dark, insidious thing. A questing hand in the night, the slightest tilt of its head in consideration. Everything is wrong. But slowly, painstakingly, it tries to right the wrongs.
It tugs and pulls, wheedles and procures. Small things at first, things no one will notice is gone.
Fear is the first to go, snuffed away like a candle flame. Fear has no place in this world, not in this life. No, this place is too precious to be sullied by mundane terror.
Anger follows next, burning like heat and fire down its throat. It’s bitter, bright, a flash in the darkness.
Then it’s the sweetness of sorrow, the blandness of loss, the euphoria of joy.
Each a different element. Each a different flavor.
It savors the crispness on its tongue, the sanguine sweetness of life. It fills its hollowness one drop at a time, and leave if famished and thirsty because this is what it was missing.
It doesn’t fit completely. It never does. A circle in a square hole isn’t perfect, but it works just as well as nothing.
It feels the loss like a limb. The emptiness where something should be, always searching and yearning and craving and wanting more and more and-

Cullen
“Cullen? Cullen!”
The world snapped sharply into focus around him, the room abruptly duller and darker than it had been a second before. Cullen blinked, taking a step back and wave of dizziness washing over him. “What?” he snapped.
It was too quiet. The attic was too suffocating and heavy, the barest hint of the whistling wind outside the only sounds in the godforsaken place. It felt like a prison.
Erin peered at him with concern, brows furrowed and a tentative hand outstretched that never came to rest. “You’re scaring me,” Erin said, letting her hand droop in the too empty space between them.
Something was missing. Cullen felt it in his bones, achingly. As if he’d lost something near and dear to him. Almost as if-
“That’s crazy,” Cullen said with a too-loud laugh, too harsh, feeling antsy beneath Erin’s scrutiny. He was restless. Felt reckless. He wanted to pace a hole in the floor, to scratch the skin from his bones. He wanted to feel-
“You’re just letting the house get to you,” he threw the words at her like an accusation, disgust and scorn a burning brand.

"No, you just seem-“ Erin broke off at whatever it was she saw in Cullen’s expression- and something in Cullen preened at that. Good, he thought viciously, then stopped, because where had that come from? Erin was his girlfriend, for goodness sake, it wasn’t like she was going to-
“Okay…” Erin was saying. “Yeah, you’re right. The house is getting to me. Can we go now? Please?”
“Scared?” Cullen teased, even as part of him balked in horror. Froze him to the spot like an icy hand around his throat. Something in him said no, and not again, and never. “C’mon, it’s just an old, rickety house.”
The house shifted at his statement- or rather, some thing in the house moved- something that scritched and scratched, and Erin whirled around to the empty doorway, face pale. “What was that?”
“You’re scared,” Cullen noted, head tilted pensively, curiously. Like Erin was an insect beneath a magnifying glass. “It’s just a house.” An old, run-down house, filled with dust and cobwebs and all manner of things. With some old forgotten toys and a doll that sat leaning against the worn wooden boxes and broken knickknacks.
Erin didn’t even try to hide the pallor of her face, the way her voice shook even as she pleaded with him. “I really think we should leave. This place isn’t- did that just move?” She pointed with a trembling hand, and Cullen followed her gaze to the doll sitting just where it’d always been, a crooked grin on its face and too bright eyes.
“Leave, then, if you’re so scared.” Cullen all but sneered, and Erin stared at him, wide-eyed and hurt.
“You-“ But the house shifted again, a distant motion that rocked the very foundations, and Erin faltered, then firmed. “Okay, fine. Whatever. You wanna be this way? That’s fine. But I’m leaving, okay? But don’t expect that we’re not going to have a talk about this later.” And Erin whirled and disappeared around the corner.
There was a vindictive sense of pride as the door slammed shut behind Erin, but as the house settled, the rooms so much emptier, the shadows lengthening on the ground and dust motes dancing in the air, Cullen’s anger disappeared just as quickly as that. All the wind blown out of his sails, the thoughts just… gone.
…That wasn’t normal. Emotions didn’t just rise and fall on a whim. Emotions didn’t disappear with a snap of a finger, to fade away like the discordant hum of an out-of-tune harp.
Cullen swallowed, staring at the closed door, the weight settling around him like a shackle, and he realized just what he’d done. Erin was gone, probably glad to be out of this forsaken place. He’d driven his girlfriend away with scorn and derision and-
Cullen shook his head.
It would be fine, wouldn’t it? Erin would understand. The house was affecting him, that was it. All Cullen had to do was find Erin, apologize, and they’d laugh it off together, and things would go back to normal.
But when Cullen took a step forward, to chase after and beg her for forgiveness, he froze, his limbs locking and throat closing. Not from fear- fear was the furthest thing from the forefront of his mind- but because he couldn’t take another step. It was as if his limbs were tied, or frozen, or suddenly gone, as if he were locked inside his own body. As if something had taken ahold of him and told him to be still.

And that was when he thought he should feel terror. That was when he thought that something was terribly horribly wrong. But there was nothing. Just a blankness in his mind, no adrenaline coursing through his veins even as his lungs choked on his next breath, as his heart jumped because what was going on?
Something creaked behind him. The steady tap tap tap of approaching footsteps, but that didn’t make any sense. There was no one else here. Cullen couldn’t move his head. He could only blink and shiver and think – something is very wrong.
There was a touch on his shoulder, featherlight, almost delicate, and then…
The world faded to black.

“Please…”
The voice is nothing more than a whisper, a trick of the wind. A tugged string, a note in the back of its mind.
The doll stirs, but doesn’t move, doesn’t do more than poke and prod at the mass in the back of its mind, then settle.
Mine, it thinks.
“…Please…” it whispers, the edge of something in its voice. The faintest impression of dragon’s wings and horns, that fade back into the black mist, falling back within the depths of darkness and roiling waves.
Delicate ball-jointed fingers trail along the spines of memoirs. It plucks the memories like notes on a piano, perusing them with all its leisure as if it has all the time in the world- and perhaps it does, there is nothing to do here but wait and wait and wait.
The presence stiffens, balks, then fall pliant. A book with its spine broken, pages fluttering, the hints of rosemary and thyme and the voice of someone else, someone dear and sweet and filled with warmth. An echo of what once was.
And then- with a soft inhale, an even exhale- it’s gone as if it never was, and the doll sighs, content.
“Please,” the voice repeats, softer, quieter, and all too lost. The cold wraps around him like an ever-lasting cocoon, embraces him in its shackles.
Mine, it repeats. And this time, there is no answer.

Commissioned from and Written by Rosoidela.

Bio template by @Mibella, find it here.

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Exalting Lucy to the service of the Earthshaker will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.

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